Fire Emblem : The Holy War

by RyanMk2

Follow Ray, sent into the world of his favorite game and the trials he will have to face in order to survive. However, this is not simply a story about his survival, but also about his desire to help and protect the bonds he made in this new world. Will he be able to save everybody ? Or will he succomb, yet again to forces greater than him ? Rated M just in case.

13. Chapter 11

Good morning, good afternoon and good evening evening everyone. Welcome to this newest chapter of Fire Emblem : The Holy War.

As promised, I bring you this chapter sooner than usual, and I hope to bring you the next just as quickly, if not more, without sacrificing the overall quality of the story. Much.

This is the penultimate chapter, game wise, since this is where chapter 1 of the game more or less ends. I hope you'll enjoy it.

Thank you for the encouragements.

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Reviews :

Reply to Shine375: I actually took inspiration from a few webtoons I've been reading—like The Novel's Extra, Academy Genius Blinker, and The Extra's Academy Survival Guide. I love how the MCs in those stories try to stick to the "original plot" but constantly end up dealing with unexpected chaos and cleaning up behind the scenes. It's a dynamic that can be both intense and funny, and I wanted to echo that here.

Thanks for your kind words! Don't worry—you'll definitely witness some lifechanging moments soon.

Reply to Guest #1 (on system reliance): I've been trying to make sure Ray doesn't become overly reliant on the system—who knows what might happen with that down the line… That said, if it didn't quite come off as natural yet, that's really good feedback. Thanks for pointing it out!

Reply to Guest #2 (enjoying the story): Thank you! I really hope you'll enjoy the rest of the story just as much—if not even more.

Reply to Guest #3 (on skill mastery, protagonist, and pairings): It's going to be quite the uphill battle for Ray to master that skill—Désir had talent, dedication, and the perfect environment, after all. We'll just have to wait and see if Ray can pull it off too.

Thanks again for your thoughtful words. Writing a protagonist who doesn't fall into too many clichés is definitely tricky (I'm leaning into the "easilyattached guy with a savior complex," I won't lie).

Also, I really appreciate that you noticed how I'm trying to make him central without taking the spotlight away from the actual protagonist. That balance isn't easy, so it means a lot to hear that.

Team Lachesis, woo! (Though I have to admit, I'm still on the fence about some of the pairings…)

Reply to Neoyle: Maybe just as much as the wrong man in the right place, huh? You might be onto something there.

Reply to Guest #4 (Ethlyn): Ethlyn in the manga is absolutely a menace, and no one can convince me otherwise.

As for Ray… he might just find religion if it means saving his friends from their inevitable (but still heartbreaking) fates. Let's just hope he doesn't get crushed by the weight of it all.

Thank you for your support—it really means a lot.

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Friendly reminder :

Ishtar is the best ! = Text from the System

"Ishtar is the best !" = Talking

'Ishtar is the best !' = Thoughts

*Ishtar is the best !* = Sound effect

Copyright Disclaimer : I don't own anything about this fanfic, except for its OCs. Everything else belongs to their respective creators, and they're the ones that deserve praise.

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Chapter 11 : The Curse Of Silence and the Price of Defiance

With Marpha Castle secured and Edain safely rescued, Sigurd's campaign in Verdane reaches a critical turning point. The true mastermind behind the conflict, the dark priest Sandima, remains entrenched in the depths of Verdane's territory—pulling strings from within and spreading chaos in the name of a darker power.

But all hope for peace is not yet lost. The group sets its sights on Prince Jamke, the youngest son of King Batu and one of Verdane's most gifted archers. Unlike his brothers, Jamke is known for his sense of honor and deep love for his homeland. Sigurd and his allies seek not only to end the war—but to save Verdane from the corrupting influence that has poisoned it.

As the final battle approaches, questions linger: can Jamke be swayed before more blood is spilled? And will the truth behind Verdane's sudden aggression finally come to light… or will it remain buried beneath the ashes of war?

---

The sun dipped low on the horizon by the time we finally stumbled back through the gates of Marpha, drained, frustrated, and empty-handed. What had begun as a straightforward reconnaissance and rescue mission had devolved into an arduous, disorienting march through the Spirit Forest. After four hours of fruitless searching and six more spent trying to extricate ourselves from the labyrinthine woods, morale was at an all-time low.

The castle's courtyard was bustling with the evening's preparations, but our group moved through the commotion in near silence. The usual camaraderie had dissolved under the weight of our collective failure. Once inside the main hall, the clatter of discarded equipment punctuated the heavy quiet, giving way to an atmosphere of palpable exhaustion.

"Well, that was an absolute disaster," Lex said at last, dropping heavily into a chair and letting his axe rest against his knee with a dull thud. "Ten hours of walking in circles for nothing. I swear those trees were moving just to mess with us."

"You're not wrong," Alec muttered, massaging his temples with a grimace. "I've seen cursed forests before, but this one's in a class of its own. It's like the place was alive—and determined to keep us lost."

"It wasn't just the terrain," I added, my voice low as I leaned against the cold stone wall, arms crossed. "There was nothing in that forest. No birds, no animals—no signs of life at all. Even the wind stayed away. It felt like the entire place was… waiting."

"Nothing about this is natural," Quan said, his normally composed demeanor fraying at the edges. "But the fact remains—we came back empty-handed. If that woman's still out there… she might not be for long."

Sigurd, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke. "We will find her." His voice was calm, but his posture betrayed his inner turmoil—jaw clenched, fists tightening at his sides. It was the look of a man grappling with his own helplessness. "I'm not giving up on her."

"Sigurd…" Ethlyn's gentle voice softened the air, but concern clouded her eyes. "We searched for hours. We're exhausted, and the forest isn't just unfamiliar—it's working against us. We can't keep charging in blind."

"She's right, milord." Naoise added, his typically measured tone sharpening with frustration. "We need a strategy. Running headlong into a cursed forest with no guide and no plan only ensures more wasted time—and we may not have time to waste."

A heavy silence settled over the room. The conflict on Sigurd's face was plain—his need for action warring with the grim reality of our situation. I understood his desperation, but impulsiveness wouldn't serve us here.

"We need information," Edain said at last, her voice calm and composed. "People who know the terrain and can navigate it more effectively than we did. If no local guides are available, we must at least chart the forest's layout with greater care."

"Agreed," Quan said with a curt nod. "But that takes time—and time might not be on our side."

"And what if we don't have time?" Sigurd's voice cracked with frustration. "What if she's already in danger? Every minute we waste—"

"Won't help if we get lost again," I cut in, my words sharper than I intended. "I get it, Sigurd. But charging back in without a plan won't save her—it'll just get us lost again, and maybe worse."

Sigurd inhaled deeply, visibly reining in his frustration. "Then what do you suggest?"

I didn't have all the answers, despite my situation, but I knew we couldn't keep making the same mistakes.

"We split our efforts," I said, my voice steady. "Send scouts to map the forest and search for any signs of her. Meanwhile, we strengthen our position here. If this forest is more than just enchanted—and I think it is—then whatever darkness lies at its core won't stay contained forever. We need to be ready for whatever comes next."

"A two-pronged approach makes sense," Quan agreed. "But we should also prepare for defensive measures. If whatever that is being trapped in that forest spills beyond its borders, Marpha will be our first line of defense. We can't assume this threat will remain confined."

Sigurd nodded slowly, though the tension in his shoulders didn't ease. "Alright. We'll regroup and approach this with clearer heads. But we will find her."

"And what if the forest makes that impossible?" Naoise asked, his voice low and grim. "What if this is far beyond anything we've encountered before?"

"Then we adapt," I said firmly, refusing to let doubt take hold. "We've come too far to let a 'supposedly'cursed forest stop us now."

Despite my words, a cold knot of unease twisted deep in my gut. I left the room after an hour or so spent resting and relaxing with some of the others.

The stone corridors of Marpha Castle stretched ahead of me, their cold austerity softened only by the flickering torchlight casting long, uncertain shadows. My footsteps echoed with an unhurried rhythm, a quiet metronome in the stillness.

As I approached the heavy wooden door, the familiar scent of medicinal herbs and faint traces of antiseptic wafted through the air. The atmosphere inside was hushed, softened by the golden glow of evening light filtering through narrow windows. The room was lined with rows of simple beds, most occupied by soldiers and refugees still recovering from our last skirmish. Their slow, steady breathing filled the air with a sense of fragile peace.

But not everyone was asleep.

Near the far end of the room, two figures drew my attention.

Shannan lay motionless in one of the more isolated beds. When we'd found him, his condition had been dire — his body worn thin from malnutrition and the relentless abuses of captivity. The signs of his suffering were stark: his skin pale, his frame gaunt, his strength depleted. Ethlyn had ordered strict rest and barred most visitors, ensuring his recovery wasn't jeopardized. Given the extent of his mistreatment… I understood the precaution.

Sitting beside him was Ayra.

She was still as stone, her eyes fixed on Shannan's sleeping form. The usual fierceness she carried — the sharp-edged warrior who struck fear on the battlefield—was tempered here by something far more vulnerable. It was rare to see Ayra like this. There was a quiet tension in the set of her shoulders, a guardedness I hadn't expected.

For a moment, I considered turning back. Whatever existed between them felt personal, and I wasn't sure if my presence would be welcome. But before I could retreat, Ayra spoke.

"You don't have to linger in the doorway," she said softly, her voice low and even.

Taking the invitation for what it was, I stepped into the room. "Didn't want to intrude," I replied, keeping my tone light.

"You're not," she answered without looking up.

My eyes fell on Shannan. Even in his weakened state, there was a certain sharpness to his features—the unmistakable bearing of someone born into responsibility. But the lines of hardship were etched deep. His slow, steady breaths were a small mercy, a sign of life despite the brutal ordeal he'd endured.

"How's he doing?" I asked quietly.

Ayra's fingers grazed the edge of the blanket in a gesture so subtle it almost escaped notice. "Better," she said. "He woke up earlier—just for a little while. He was lucid." Her voice softened, the words heavy with cautious hope. "That's more than I dared to expect."

The depth of her relief was palpable, and it told me far more than her stoic expression ever could.

"You've been here a while," I observed.

"As much as I can be." At last, she turned to face me. Her eyes were dark, steady. "He's my responsibility."

The simplicity of the statement belied its weight. "You care about him," I said carefully.

Her expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes. "He's family."

The word hung between us, heavy and unyielding. There was a story there, one I wasn't completely privy to. But I knew enough to recognize the fierce protectiveness in her voice — the kind born of love and regret.

The silence stretched out, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It carried weight, the kind of quiet where words weren't always necessary. Still, after a while, Ayra broke it.

"He's stronger than he looks," she said softly. "He always has been. But this… what they did to him…" Her voice faltered, and for the first time, I saw the cracks beneath her armor. "I should have prevented this from happening."

"It's not your fault," I said gently, though I knew the words wouldn't ease her guilt.

"Maybe not. But it still happened." Her fingers curled into fists, knuckles whitening. "And I won't let it happen again."

The quiet determination in her voice left no room for doubt. Ayra was a force of nature — unwavering, fierce — and Shannan, for all his quiet resilience, was the center of that resolve.

We stayed there for a while longer, the only sounds were the steady rhythm of Shannan's breathing and the soft crackle of the hearth. Eventually, I pushed away from the wall, reluctant to disturb the fragile peace.

"I'll leave you to it," I said softly.

Ayra didn't answer right away. But just as I turned to go, her voice stopped me.

"Thank you."

It was quiet — almost too quiet — but the sincerity in it was unmistakable.

I didn't turn back. "Anytime," I said.

As I stepped into the corridor once more, the air felt heavier than before. There was a sense that whatever lay ahead was only going to grow more complicated — and that the bonds I'd just witnessed were going to shape what was coming in ways none of us could yet foresee.

I found myself in my room some time after my visit to the infirmary. It was steeped in stillness, broken only by the faint flicker of candlelight casting elongated shadows on the stone walls. Seated cross-legged on the cold floor, I focused inward, my breathing slow and steady as I traced the rhythmic pulse of magic within me.

It was a familiar practice by now—aligning energy and trying to sense my surroundings, allowing the world around me to fade as I sought balance in the quiet. The burdens of the day slipped away, dissolving into the calm I worked so hard to maintain.

[The skill 'Presence Detection' is being activated]

Then came the knock.

Soft but insistent, the sound pulled me from my meditation. I exhaled slowly, extending my senses outward before I spoke. The presence behind the door was warm and flickering—hesitant but unmistakable.

Azelle detected.

"Azelle," I called, my voice even. "You can come in."

The door creaked open, and Azelle stepped inside with careful, almost tentative movements. He lingered near the threshold, his fingers twisting at the edge of his cloak, and the dim light caught the faint flush rising on his face.

"I—uh—I hope I'm not disturbing you," he began, his voice subdued. "It's just… I was wondering if we could talk. About magic. If you're not too busy."

One brow arched almost of its own accord, and I let a small smirk tug at the corner of my mouth. "Bit late for a study session, isn't it?"

Azelle winced, his blush deepening. "I know! It's just… I couldn't sleep. And I kept thinking about what you said last time — about understanding magic on a deeper level — and, well…" His words tumbled over one another before trailing off entirely.

I softened at his obvious nervousness, waving him inside. "Relax," I said. "You're not bothering me. Besides, I could use a distraction." I gestured to the chair near my desk. "Sit. Let's talk."

Azelle took the invitation with obvious relief, settling into the chair while adjusting his cloak with fidgeting hands. His eyes flicked toward me with a mix of eagerness and uncertainty.

"So," I began, leaning back against the wall. "What's on your mind?"

"Fire magic," he answered without hesitation. "I know you've got a handle on wind and some elemental theory, but fire's… different. I thought maybe I could help you understand it better. If you want."

That caught me off guard. Azelle rarely took the initiative, and his offer carried a confidence I wasn't used to seeing from him. Still, I wasn't about to pass up the opportunity.

"Alright," I said, intrigued. "Teach me."

He straightened in his seat, visibly relaxing as his familiar subject took center stage. "Fire magic isn't just about destruction," he began. "It's about emotions. It's passion and restraint in equal measure. It's easy to let emotion fuel the flames — to let them consume you — but real mastery comes from balance." With a subtle movement of his fingers, a small flame flickered into existence above his palm. "Fire is warmth and fury. Creation and destruction. You have to feel that tension — the push and pull — and learn how to shape it."

I watched the flame dance in his hand, the light casting golden reflections in his eyes. There was an assuredness in his voice I didn't often hear — a quiet expertise born of years of practice.

"How do you keep it from running wild?" I asked.

"You don't," he replied with a wry smile. "Not completely. Fire wants to spread — it's in its nature. But you guide it. You give it form and purpose. Think of it like… like music. You don't suppress the melody — you shape it. You let it rise and fall without losing control."

'How very Lewyn of you.'

I turned that over in my mind, reaching inward toward my own magic. Wind had always come naturally to me — adaptable, fluid, ever-changing. Fire, though… fire was impatient. Volatile.

"Show me," I said.

Azelle extinguished his flame with a flick of his fingers and nodded. "Alright. Close your eyes. Feel the heat — the energy. Don't force it. Just… let it rise."

I did as instructed, drawing my focus inward. The warmth sparked quickly — eager and ready — but when I tried to shape it, the heat flared too fast, slipping beyond my control. The air around my fingertips shimmered before the magic collapsed, sputtering out.

"Too fast," Azelle said gently. "You're rushing it. Start smaller. Find the ember before you chase the flame."

I tried again, slower this time. The warmth returned, more controlled. I held it there, breathing with it, until a faint heat began to ripple above my palm.

"Good," Azelle said, his voice soft but pleased. "Now shape it. Give it form."

The heat flickered and twisted — and with effort, a tiny flame sparked to life. An ember, really.

It wasn't much, but it was steady.

"Not bad," Azelle said, his smile warm and genuine.

"Not bad?" I teased, opening my eyes to meet his. "I'd call that impressive."

He laughed — a quiet, easy sound. "You've got potential," he admitted. "Just… don't get cocky. Fire has a way of humbling even the most talented mages."

"Duly noted," I said with a grin.

The conversation flowed more easily after that — an exchange of various theories was more than enough to get Azelle going. As the night deepened, I found myself grateful for the distraction… and for the unexpected teacher sitting across from me.

The hours stretched on, and the candle burned low. Azelle's voice grew more animated as we moved from the basics of fire's temperament to the nuances of manipulating its form. He described advanced techniques — shaping fire into precise constructs, sustaining controlled bursts without losing stability — and his passion for the art became unmistakable. He wasn't just teaching; he was sharing a part of himself.

Eventually, the discussion slowed. The warmth of the room matched the flickering embers of the fire we'd conjured together, and a comfortable silence settled over us.

"Thank you," Azelle said at last, his voice quiet but sincere. "For listening. For… letting me teach you. I don't get to do that often."

"Anytime," I replied, meaning it. "You're a better teacher than you think."

He smiled, and as he stood to leave, the flickering light reflected a newfound confidence in his eyes.

I watched him go, the room colder in his absence—but the warmth of our training lingered long after.

---

The road ahead wound through undulating hills and sparse woodlands, the landscape painted in hues of green and gold beneath the mid-morning sun. The air carried a crispness that hinted at the changing season, filled with the earthy scent of pine and the distant calls of birds. It should have been a peaceful journey, but a quiet tension underpinned every step.

As I glanced back at our small party, I took stock of my companions.

Lex rode with his usual nonchalance, his ever-present axe resting against his back. But despite his relaxed demeanor, his sharp eyes scanned the terrain, ever vigilant.

Naoise rode with perfect posture, his disciplined presence a constant reassurance, while the small contingent of their knight units followed closely behind. Their armor glinted in the sun, reflecting both their readiness and the gravity of our mission.

We were bound for a remote village — one said to be the closest settlement to the enigmatic Spirit Forest. Rumors suggested its inhabitants held knowledge of the forest's secrets, perhaps even the key to navigating its treacherous depths.

— Flashback —

"You want to what now?" Quan's voice was incredulous, his brows knitting together in disbelief.

"I want to speak with the people in the village that's close to the Spirit Forest," I repeated, keeping my tone even. "They're our best chance of finding someone who knows how to navigate it. We've been running in circles, and we can't afford to waste more time."

"It's a reasonable idea," Sigurd interjected, his thoughtful expression suggesting he was already weighing the risks. "The forest's enchantments are no ordinary obstacle — local knowledge could prove invaluable."

"It's still a gamble," Quan countered. "You'll be alone in enemy territory. If Verdane strikes where you are, I—"

"I'll take a small group," I assured him. "Lex, Naoise, and a few knights. We'll move quickly and stay out of trouble."

Sigurd's piercing gaze held mine for a moment before he nodded. "Alright. But promise me one thing — if things go sideways, don't try to be a hero."

"Me? Never," I said with a smirk.

— Present : On the Road —

"So, Ray," Lex drawled, breaking the quiet rhythm of hooves against dirt. "You really think this village is gonna have the answers we need? Or are we just out here on a sightseeing tour?"

"Who knows," I replied, adjusting my cloak against the breeze, "but even I can't guess my way through a cursed forest. If anyone knows a safe path, it'll be these people."

"Let's hope they're cooperative," Naoise added, his voice calm but edged with skepticism. "I've no interest in chasing rumors or legends."

"You need to learn to enjoy a little adventure," Lex teased. "Where's your sense of fun?"

"I left it in Chalphy," Naoise deadpanned, not missing a beat.

Lex's laughter echoed across the fields, and despite myself, I felt a grin tug at my lips.

The village was small, its collection of simple homes clustered around a modest square. The people eyed us with cautious curiosity, their suspicion tempered by their willingness to talk once reassured of our peaceful intent. Before long, we were directed to the elder's house.

The elder's cottage was warm and inviting, the scent of herbs mingling with the woodsmoke from his hearth. Seated around a low table, we sipped at cups of fragrant tea while the old man began his tale.

"Just north a' here lies the Spirit Forest," the elder said, his voice gravelly with age but steady. "I once lived there myself, when I was very, very young, in a village deep within its heart. That hamlet's home to the last descendants of the dark god Loptous. The line goes all the way back to Saint Maira, exiled by the empire for daring to defend mortal men."

His words caused the other two to stiffened, although the act was barely noticeable to anyone who wasn't used to them.

"Back in my day," the elder continued, "there was a woman named Cigyun — the last heir of Loptous' bloodline. Beautiful, but kept under strict watch. The villagers feared what'd happen if that blood left the forest." He paused, his expression darkening. "But Cigyun grew restless. She left the woods, breaking ancient laws. When she returned, she was with a child. Never said who the father was. Soon after, she died giving birth to a daughter. That girl was raised by the village's prophet, far from the outside world. If she's still alive, she'd be seventeen or eighteen now."

I kept my face impassive, but my mind raced.

"And the forest?" I prompted.

"It's a living thing," the elder said. "The woods shift and change. Only those born within its bounds can navigate it. Without a guide… you'll never find your way. And I'm too old to even remember the way."

'So this was a dead end.'

The village faded into the distance behind us, swallowed by the dense forest and rolling hills that lined the path back to our camp. The sun had already begun its slow descent, casting long shadows through the trees, painting the world in hues of amber and gold. Despite the warm light, there was an odd weight in the air—something unspoken lingering between us.

Lex let out a frustrated huff, his fingers tightening around the shaft of his axe. "Well, that was a damn waste of time. Can we head back now?"

It was only the two of us. Naoise went back immediately in order to report to Sigurd and Quan.

I glanced at Lex, then shook my head. "Not yet."

His brow furrowed. "What? We got nothing out of that village but a bunch of old stories and superstitions. What else is there to check?"

I kept walking, not answering immediately. Not like me answering would be any helpful. I couldn't exactly say 'Hey Lex. There's a lake woman somewhere south from here that'll give you a Brave Axe as a reward for being honest, so let's go and get that dead ass weapon.'

Lex grumbled, but he followed. "I swear, if this is another wild goose chase—"

"Just trust me," I interrupted, stepping past the last of the tree line.

'It should be around here somewhere… Ah!'

The landscape opened up before us, revealing a stretch of jagged cliffs that overlooked a vast lake. The water stretched endlessly toward the horizon, perfectly still, like a polished mirror reflecting the sky above. It was eerily silent, not a single ripple disturbing the surface. Not even a breeze.

Lex eyed the scene warily. "Okay, I'll bite. Why are we here?"

I didn't answer right away. I didn't have to. The only thing left for me to do was wait. Lex however…

A sudden splash broke the silence.

Lex swore behind me. "Ah, dammit! I dropped my axe!"

'Yeah. I know.'

The weapon had slipped from his grip, tumbling off the rocky ledge and vanishing beneath the surface. The ripples it created expanded outward in perfect concentric circles, spreading across the glass-like expanse of water.

Lex groaned. "Great. Just great." He rolled his shoulders, already moving to step closer to the edge. "Guess I'm swimming for it."

"Wait."

The single word left my mouth before I even realized why I had spoken. There was no need for him to after all.

The lake was still rippling, a bit too much and for a bit too long. Lex froze beside me, his eyes narrowing. He saw it too.

The air felt heavier, thick with something unnameable. Then, without warning, the water stirred—more than it should have. The ripples moved in the opposite direction now, pulling inward instead of outward, converging toward the center of the disturbance. The surface shimmered, a strange glow flickering beneath the depths, as if something was coming up.

Then—

She rose.

The woman emerged from the water with an unnatural grace, her silver hair cascading down her back like liquid moonlight. The water clung to her as if reluctant to let her go, silk-like and luminous in the fading sunlight. Her skin was pale—almost too pale, like someone carved from marble rather than flesh and blood.

Lex took a sharp step back, his mouth slightly open, caught somewhere between confusion and alarm. "What the hell—"

She didn't acknowledge him at first, her gaze sweeping over both of us with an eerie serenity. There was something unearthly about her, something that made it impossible to look away. Her expression was calm, but not emotionless. She seemed… expectant. As if she had known we would come.

'Of course she did.'

Then, she spoke, her voice smooth and otherworldly, like a melody echoing from somewhere far beyond this lake.

"What you dropped…" Her hand lifted, and in her palm, an axe materialized—gleaming gold, pristine, almost blinding in the light. "Was it this golden axe?"

Lex blinked, his brain seemingly taking a moment to catch up. "What?"

The woman smiled ever so slightly, and in her other hand, a second weapon appeared—this one silver, polished to a mirror sheen. "Or perhaps… this silver axe?"

Lex visibly flinched, the situation officially registering as bizarre. His face had gone red, his hand rubbing awkwardly at the back of his head. "Uh… no, neither. My axe isn't anything that fancy. Just a plain old iron one."

For a moment, the woman simply regarded him. Then, something in her expression softened. Amusement? Approval? It was difficult to say. But she gave a small nod, and in the next instant, both the golden and silver axes disappeared as if they had never existed at all.

"Such honesty deserves a reward," she said.

The water around her shifted again, and this time, a third axe formed in her hands. It was heavier than the others, broader, its twin blades curved and viciously sharp. It was unlike any axe I had ever seen, imbued with a strange presence, its metal dark yet gleaming.

She extended it toward Lex. "Take this Brave Axe as a gift… and farewell, Lord Lex."

His name lingered in the air like a whisper, like something more than just speech. Before either of us could react, she turned, her body sinking back beneath the lake as smoothly as she had risen. The water swallowed her whole in an instant, returning to its perfect, undisturbed state. The ripples faded. The glow disappeared.

It was as if she had never been there at all.

Lex just stood there, staring at the gleaming weapon now in his hands. His expression was frozen somewhere between awe and absolute bewilderment. His fingers tightened around the hilt, testing the weight, confirming it was real.

"...Er," he managed, blinking slowly.

I clapped him on the shoulder, unable to hold back a smirk. "Well, congratulations, Lex. Honesty really paid off for you."

He turned his head toward me, eyes still slightly wide, lips pressing together in an unreadable expression.

Then, after a long silence—

"I have so many questions." He blinked at the axe. "This… this is the weirdest day of my life."

"And it's only going to get weirder," I muttered.

---

The stone corridors of Marpha Castle stretched before me, dimly lit by the afternoon sun filtering through narrow windows. The results of the scouting mission still pressed heavily on my mind.

The village elder's words echoed in my thoughts — the ever-shifting Spirit Forest, the lost bloodline of Loptous, and the unsettling knowledge that without a guide from within, we were essentially blind. Sigurd and Quan would undoubtedly be planning our next moves, but I needed a reprieve—a brief escape from the looming uncertainty that was the next battle.

Almost instinctively, my feet carried me toward the infirmary. As I neared the doorway, the gentle aroma of dried flowers and medicinal concoctions drifted toward me, a calming contrast to the tension still lingering from our expedition. But my steps slowed when I noticed an unexpected figure standing just outside the entrance.

"Dew?" I blinked, my surprise evident. The scruffy-haired boy leaned casually against the frame, his ever-present, mischievous grin firmly in place. "Where are you going? Did Ethlyn really clear you to leave the infirmary?"

Dew turned toward me with the kind of confident smirk only he could manage. His bright eyes sparkled with the unmistakable energy of someone who had no business looking so lively after being bedridden.

"Me? Leave? Nah," Dew waved a hand dismissively. "I already finished my stroll. Just getting some fresh air before heading back in. Gotta keep the legs moving, you know!" He stretched exaggeratedly, as if to prove his point.

I crossed my arms, giving him a skeptical once-over. "You're walking around like you weren't half-delirious with fever two days ago. You sure you're not pushing it?"

"Pushing it? I would never." Dew puffed out his chest with mock indignation. "I'm as fit as a fiddle! Besides, I had important business!"

I raised an eyebrow. "Right. And I suppose this 'important business' has nothing to do with whatever trouble you're about to stir up?"

"Trouble? Me?" His grin widened, his eyes twinkling with playful defiance. "I'm a paragon of virtue, mister. You wound me."

Shaking my head, I gestured for him to lead the way. "Alright, fine. Let's see what 'business' you're up to."

The infirmary was warm and quiet, the soft rustle of fabric and the faint clink of glass and stone filling the air. The scent of crushed herbs hung heavily, soothing in its familiarity.

In one corner, Edain sat at a sturdy wooden table, meticulously grinding medicinal leaves with a mortar and pestle. The afternoon light caught her golden hair, creating a halo effect around her calm, focused expression.

She looked up as we entered, her face brightening with quiet warmth. "Ray," she greeted, her voice soft but pleased. "You've returned sooner than I expected. I thought you'd still be with Lord Sigurd."

"I did my part," I said, letting my gaze sweep over the peaceful scene. "And speaking of doing one's part — I keep finding you buried in herbs and medicine. Are you sure you're not secretly turning into one of the plants?"

Edain laughed softly, the sound gentle and musical. "Someone has to ensure the army stays in good health. And besides… I find it soothing."

Before I could respond, Dew bounded forward, practically vibrating with excitement. "Hey! Miss Edain!" he called, his voice cutting through the tranquility. "I got something for you!" He reached behind his back with exaggerated flair and produced a staff, its polished wood gleaming faintly in the dim light.

Edain's eyes widened as she took the staff, examining it with practiced care. "Oh? This is… a Warp staff. Dew, where in the world did you find this?"

"Oh… uh…" Dew's gaze darted around the room, and his feet shuffled awkwardly. "I… I found it just over there! Yeah! Right over there! Must've been left behind by one of the gods or something. Juuuuust for you!"

I fought hard to keep my expression neutral, but the effort nearly made me bite my tongue.

Edain's lips twitched with the faintest trace of amusement, but she didn't press the matter. "Well, Dew… a staff like this will be a tremendous help to everyone. Thank you. I'll cherish it."

"No problemo!" Dew declared, giving an overly dramatic bow. "My work here is done!" And with that, he spun on his heel and strolled out of the infirmary, whistling a cheerful tune as he went.

For a long moment, silence stretched between us, broken only by the rhythmic scraping of the mortar as Edain returned to her task.

"That kid's going to be nothing but trouble," I muttered, watching his retreating figure with equal parts amusement and exasperation.

"He has a good heart," Edain said softly, her smile lingering. "Even if his methods are… unconventional."

"Unconventional is one word for it," I agreed, shaking my head.

Seeing the empty chair beside her, I settled into it with a quiet sigh, stretching my legs out beneath the table. "Need an extra pair of hands?"

Surprise flickered across her face for barely a second before softening into gratitude. "If you're willing, I'd appreciate the help."

"Just tell me what to do," I said, rolling up my sleeves.

She passed me a bundle of leaves and explained how to grind them, her instructions patient and clear. The rhythmic sound of the pestle grinding against stone and the scent of crushed herbs filled the infirmary, a steady and soothing counterpoint to the rustle of parchment and the soft clink of glass vials. The air was saturated with the scent of herbs — earthy and astringent, mingled with the faint sweetness of dried flowers.

"You're doing well," Edain's voice broke through the quiet, calm and encouraging. Her eyes flickered between my hands and the mortar, her practiced gaze noting every movement. "But ease your pressure on the feverfew. If you grind too forcefully, the oils will overconcentrate and disrupt the tonic's balance. The goal is to release its properties slowly — patience makes for a better remedy."

I adjusted my grip, slowing my motion. The fine powder forming at the bottom of the bowl took on a pale green hue, its fragrance growing richer with every turn of the pestle. I focused on the texture and scent, letting the rhythm become almost meditative.

"This mixture… it's for fever, right?" I asked, not breaking my rhythm, recalling some of the books I'd read on the subject.

Edain nodded, her hands deftly sorting through a selection of carefully measured ingredients. "A tonic for fever and exhaustion," she confirmed. "It stabilizes body temperature and fortifies the immune system. Ethlyn used this same preparation on Dew and Shannan when they were brought in. It's effective — but only when made with precision and the right balance of ingredients."

My eyes drifted over the array of herbs spread across the table—feverfew, willow bark, crushed valerian root, chamomile, and a few I didn't immediately recognize. Each was arranged meticulously, their quantities exact.

"The willow bark acts as an anti-inflammatory and pain reliever," Edain explained, adding a measured pinch of finely ground root to my mixture. "Valerian calms the nerves and encourages rest, while feverfew mitigates heat and prevents the escalation of symptoms. Chamomile soothes the digestive system and enhances absorption of the other herbs. Each component is valuable on its own, but when combined properly, they create something far more potent and effective."

"You really know your craft," I remarked, impressed by her depth of knowledge and the quiet confidence in her instructions.

A soft, humble smile curved Edain's lips. "A healer must," she replied simply. "There's no room for mistakes when lives depend on your skill. The right dosage, the right combination — they can make the difference between life and death. And sometimes, the smallest error can lead to failure. That's why every step matters."

The room fell into a comfortable silence as we worked, the rhythmic sound of grinding and the occasional rustle of parchment filling the space. The calm felt like a balm, a brief respite from the ever-present tension of war.

"How did you learn all this?" I asked after a while, curiosity getting the better of me.

"From the temple," she said softly. "And from my own experience. When you spend enough time tending to the sick and injured, you learn quickly what works and what doesn't. Sometimes the old texts are invaluable… and sometimes you have to trust your instincts."

Her words hung in the air, and I found myself admiring the quiet strength behind them. Edain wasn't just a healer — she was a guardian of life amid destruction.

After a while, I glanced up and decided to broach a subject that had been lingering in my mind. "So… you brought the Yewfelle with you."

The motion of Edain's hands stilled briefly before she resumed her work with practiced composure. "Yes," she said quietly. "I did."

I kept my tone neutral, but there was no ignoring the weight of the relic she carried. "It's a sacred artifact," I said. "A weapon of immense power and a symbol of Yngvi's strength. Carrying it here — so far from home — is a dangerous risk. I imagine there are more than a few people who would gladly take it off your hands, if only to weaken your family's influence."

Edain's voice remained steady, but I could see the flicker of conviction in her eyes. "I'm well aware of the danger," she replied. "But the Yewfelle is my family's legacy. And one day, it will belong to my sister—as it was always meant to."

The mention of her sister brought a shift in her expression—a mixture of hope and sorrow that tugged at something in my chest.

"Brigid," I said softly, the name stirring a memory at the edge of my mind.

I remembered a fleeting encounter — a fierce woman with eyes like the sea and a presence as untamable as the waves. The impression had been brief, but it left no doubt of her strength.

"You believe she's still alive," I said, more statement than question.

"I have to," Edain replied, her voice unwavering. "No one else does — not anymore. But I refuse to abandon hope. She's out there. I know she is."

For a moment, I didn't speak. I thought of the odds stacked against them — the years of silence, the unknown dangers Brigid faced alone. But I also saw the quiet determination in Edain's every word, the steadfast belief that kept her searching.

"Then we'll find her," I said at last, my voice gentle but certain. "I'll help you."

Edain's eyes met mine, surprise giving way to gratitude. "Thank you, Ray," she whispered. "You don't know what this means to me."

"Don't thank me yet," I teased, offering a crooked smile. "I'm terrible with directions."

Her laughter was soft and warm, and for the first time in what felt like days, the weight on my chest eased. We returned to our work in quiet companionship, the steady rhythm of the pestle against stone blending with the quiet promise we'd made — a promise of hope, and the determination to see it through.

---

The war room crackled with tension, every voice raised in concern and disbelief as the reports kept pouring in. The air was thick with the scent of smoke filtering in from outside, and the distant roar of flames underscored the urgency of the moment.

"...What did you say?" Sigurd's voice cut through the chaos like a blade. His blue eyes, so often composed even in the heat of battle, were wide with shock. "Prince Jamke is leading the army besieging our castle?"

The elder of Marpha nodded grimly. "It seems that is the case. Prince Jamke's bow fighters — the only disciplined section of Verdane's forces. The rest are mere ruffians, but his men… they're different. They've been firing flaming arrows from beyond the walls, and they're trying to tear down the castle gate."

The sound of a battering ram crashing against wood reverberated through the chamber. A moment later, another volley of flaming arrows streaked through the sky, their orange light flickering against the walls.

"That… that can't be!" Edain's voice cracked, the disbelief clear in her eyes.

"We need to keep our heads," I said, stepping forward. "If Jamke really is leading this attack, there's still a chance to stop this without bloodshed. But we need to move fast — and we need answers. Fighting him should be our last resort."

Most of those around me nodded, Edain the first among them.

The elder's face darkened. "I fear… Prince Jamke may have fallen under the influence of Sandima."

"Sandima?" Sigurd's brow furrowed. "Who is that?"

"A dark mage of mysterious origins," the elder explained. "Ever since Sandima arrived, King Bator's behavior changed. I believe it was his suggestion that pushed the king to invade Grannvale."

I crossed my arms, thinking fast. "If Sandima's behind this, then he's the true enemy. We can't charge into battle without understanding what's happening, we'll be playing right into his hands."

Sigurd's jaw tightened as he looked at me. "But for what reason would a mage like him… need to provoke a war with us?"

"That's exactly what we need to find out," I said. "But we won't get those answers through bloodshed."

"Lord Sigurd," Oifey interrupted, his voice steady despite the rising tension and the fact that he'd just run. "Preparations for the sortie are complete. Shall we fight back?"

"We can't!" Edain's voice rang out, silencing the room. "I refuse to fight against Prince Jamke. He… he's the one who rescued me from captivity. He is our only hope for peace!"

Oifey hesitated. "Lady Edain…"

"She's right," I said, stepping closer. "We have a real chance to stop this from turning into a massacre. Jamke isn't our enemy — not really. If we can reach him, we might be able to stop this."

Sigurd's face was unreadable as he processed our words. Finally, he nodded. "For now, we focus on evacuating the townspeople into the castle and extinguishing the fires. Once the civilians are safe, we'll find a way to handle Jamke."

The room burst into action as orders were relayed and soldiers hurried to their posts. I remained with Sigurd and Oifey, poring over the map of the castle and discussing possible approaches. Outside, the flames continued to rage, casting an orange glow against the twilight sky. The sound of battle was relentless — the crash of the ram, the hiss of arrows, the shouts of soldiers.

Azelle arrived soon after, his face flushed with exertion. "Lord Sigurd, all the townspeople have been evacuated into the castle."

"Good work," Sigurd said, though his tension remained. "We'll need every advantage we can get."

Azelle's eyes flicked toward Edain. "Are you alright? You look pale."

"Azelle…" Edain began, but before she could finish, a thunderous crack split the air.

Oifey burst into the room moments later, his face tight with urgency. "Lord Sigurd! The enemy has breached the castle walls! They're pouring into the courtyard!"

"Damn it," I muttered. "We're running out of time. If they've already breached the walls, this is our last chance to reach Jamke before it's too late."

"Belhalla will never allow us to surrender," one of the knights warned. "We must fight back!"

"No," Edain said softly, and the room fell silent. She straightened her shoulders, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. "I… I'll go. I'll try to persuade Prince Jamke."

"Edain, no!" I stepped forward, my voice firm. "It's too dangerous. You want to save him, I get that, I want that too— but you'd be standing alone against an entire army with arrows pointed at you. They won't wait to listen."

"I have to," she insisted, her eyes meeting mine. "He saved me. If the elder is right — if Jamke has fallen under Sandima's influence — then I must bring him back to his senses. I owe him that much."

I exhaled sharply, my frustration warring with my respect for her resolve. "Then let me come with you," I said quietly. "You don't have to do this alone."

She reached out, her hand resting briefly on my arm. "Thank you, Ray. But this… this is something I must do alone."

Moments later, Oifey returned. "The enemy's arrow fire has ceased — at least for the moment. They may be running low on ammunition."

"Even so," Sigurd muttered, "they haven't called off the siege. Something's not right."

"This might be our only chance," Quan said. "If we're going to try diplomacy, we have to do it now."

"Perhaps I should accompany you," Sigurd suggested.

But Edain shook her head, offering a gentle smile. "Please don't worry. I believe Prince Jamke will be more willing to listen if I go alone."

"Aren't you afraid?" Azelle asked softly.

Edain's voice wavered. "I… I'm not scared."

But I saw the flicker of fear in her eyes. She was brave — but not fearless.

"Open the gate!" Quan ordered.

The heavy doors creaked open, and Edain stepped forward. But before she could move too far, I caught her wrist.

It wasn't any deep thinking that compelled me to do so. Not any strategy, or well thought plan. It was pure, raw emotion that pushed me forward.

"Edain," I said quietly, my heart pounding. "You don't have to do this alone. Please — let me help."

She smiled again, and this time there was more certainty in her eyes. "I know you will, Ray. Thank you."

I stayed silent for a moment, not sure what to say. But eventually, the words left my mouth. There was no preparation, no complex thinking behind me. Just my honest feelings.

"...I just want you to know that…I'll protect you, no matter what tries to harm you."

She only smiled at me. The kind of smile meant to reassure, but only that. "...thank you. I know you will."

She slipped from my grasp, and I watched her silhouette move further away. The courtyard fell silent as the enemy noticed the gates opening.

The wind whipped around me in response to my inner turmoil, and I felt the tug of my magic stir.

---

[You refuse to stand idle. The world bends to your resolve, the winds rising in answer to your unspoken will. The ground ceases to bind you, and the sky is no longer a distant boundary—it becomes your path.]

[The system recognizes your desperation. A new skill has been discovered.]

---

Skywalker

- Rank : A

- Cost : 15MP/Sec

- Type : Active

Skywalker is a supernatural skill that grants mastery over the winds, allowing you to soar through the air as if it were an extension of the earth beneath your feet. No longer bound by gravity, you move with effortless grace, carried by unseen currents that shift in response to your will. The wind bends to your presence, guiding your flight with fluid precision, lifting you higher with each breath. Whether gliding through open skies or weaving through the battlefield, your movements remain silent, swift, and untouchable—like a whisper upon the storm.

---

"Ray!" Sigurd's alarmed voice called as the wind rose.

"Don't worry," I said, lifting into the air. "I'm just getting a better view."

I soared toward the wall, the courtyard stretching out below me. But before I could assess the enemy's formation, a shout rang out.

I acted on instinct, wind surging around me wildly, begging to be rezlsed as I saw the arrows fly towards Edain.

"Hold your fire!"

Jamke's voice cut through the din, filled with authority and desperation. The archers hesitated, but one last volley was already loosed.

And then something extraordinary happened.

Edain began to glow.

A soft, radiant light enveloped her, and the arrows that should have struck her curved away — save for one that grazed her cheek. The brilliance of the glow held the enemy in awe.

"A goddess…" one soldier whispered.

"It's a goddess…" another echoed.

And then Jamke stepped forward. His face was pale, his expression a mix of fear and hope.

When he reached Edain, he fell to his knees, his voice breaking.

"It would have been easier… if you'd condemned me," he whispered. "But to look at me with such sorrowful… with such sad eyes… please… stop it…"

From my vantage point, I exhaled in relief, letting the wind and my magic return to normal.

The battle, at least for now, was over. Edain had done the impossible — and in that moment, she truly did seem divine.

---

The morning sun spilled over Marpha, casting long shadows across the castle grounds. Outside, soldiers from both sides worked to repair the damage. Verdane's men, once the aggressors, now labored alongside our own forces under watchful eyes. The town still bore the scars of battle—charred wood, broken stone, and the lingering scent of smoke.

Civilians cautiously emerged from their homes, their faces tight with fear and exhaustion. Children clung to their parents, their wide eyes scanning the foreign soldiers with suspicion. The occasional clatter of timber or hiss of steam punctuated the otherwise subdued atmosphere.

The air was heavy with the aftermath of what had nearly been a tragedy. And yet, the work outside showed a glimmer of hope—the beginnings of restoration.

For us, though, this was far from the end.

After breakfast, Sigurd summoned me to his office. When I arrived, Quan and Jamke were already seated, nursing steaming cups of what looked like tea. The room smelled of herbs and woodsmoke, creating a strange sense of calm that belied the tension in the air. Guards stood at attention around the room, their presence a stark reminder that trust had yet to be fully restored.

"Good morning," I greeted, taking in the scene with careful attention.

"Good morning to you too," Quan replied with his usual composure, though his eyes held a weariness that mirrored my own.

Jamke nodded in greeting. His eyes flicked toward me with a glint of familiarity — and no wonder. This wasn't our first meeting after all.

"How was your night?" Quan asked, his brow lifting in quiet inquiry.

"Fitful," I admitted. "Pretty sure I had a nightmare."

Seeing Edain nearly turned into a pincushion would do that to a person. The image of those arrows streaking toward her, the desperate hope that she wouldn't fall… it still lingered, too fresh. I hadn't been able to protect her — not really. That thought gnawed at me.

I took a seat beside them, waiting as Sigurd entered. His presence filled the room with an air of authority tempered by kindness. He looked exhausted, the lines on his face deeper than I remembered. Still, his posture remained straight, his eyes focused and sharp.

"It seems there wasn't any serious damage," Quan reported. "The only parts that burned were the wooden sections of the castle grounds. The stone structures remain intact, though some of the support beams will need replacing."

Sigurd nodded, his expression one of measured relief. "And for personally ensuring no harm came to the civilians… I give you my thanks, Prince Jamke. Edain has spoken highly of you. I've been wanting to meet you."

Jamke smiled faintly, though there was a flicker of surprise in his eyes. "You are an unusual man, Lord Sigurd… I truly thought I would be executed for my actions, yet…"

"Of course not!" Sigurd said, his voice warm but resolute. "To me, you are not an enemy. Those who share common ideals should be comrades, not adversaries. I believe we both want peace — and there is no reason to shed blood when understanding is possible."

"And besides," I added, leaning forward, "we already know who the real culprit is."

Sigurd nodded, his expression darkening. "We've heard about a sorcerer — Sadifa? Sandila?"

"Sandima," I corrected, my voice flat.

"Yes, that," Sigurd said, the name still unfamiliar on his tongue. Or maybe he did that on purpose. "The townspeople and the castle's survivors all spoke of him."

"Ever since Sandima arrived," Quan added, "King Batu's behavior changed. The pacifistic king of Verdane suddenly turned aggressive and war-hungry. That shift didn't happen on its own."

Jamke's face grew grim. "That's right. My father… he refuses to listen to anyone but Sandima. My words… my advice… they've fallen on deaf ears. He sees only what that mage wants him to see."

He paused, his hands tightening into fists. The frustration in his voice was palpable.

"Sandima is a master manipulator," Jamke continued. "He won my father's trust by claiming credit for saving him from an assassination attempt. But that assassin… was Sandima's own agent. A ploy. And yet, with no evidence to prove my accusations, my father saw only his supposed savior."

Jamke's shoulders sagged, his voice softening. "No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't break Sandima's hold on him. With his dark magic… with his words… he's turned my father into a puppet. And now Verdane's people pay the price."

"Dark magic?" Quan's eyes sharpened, his warrior's instincts flaring.

Sigurd's expression grew more serious. "Are you confirming that Sandima is indeed a member of the dark sect?"

Jamke blinked in confusion. "Dark sect? You mean the cult that worships the dark god?"

"The same," I murmured. "Not like there are twelve of them."

Sigurd's jaw tightened. "If that's the case… then I understand Sandima's ambitions."

Quan nodded thoughtfully. "Grannvale's power lies in its royal family and the six ducal houses, each carrying the blood of the original holy warriors. For a sect devoted to darkness, eliminating those bloodlines would be their highest priority."

"Which makes this more than just a border skirmish," I added. "This is about power — ancient power. And if Sandima's using Verdane as a stepping stone, we need to stop him before his influence spreads any further."

Jamke's voice was low, his words heavy with regret. "I should have stopped him sooner. I tried… but without proof, I was powerless. And now my people suffer for my failure."

"It's not your failure," I said quietly. "Sandima's manipulation runs deep. But we're not powerless now. We know what we're dealing with — and we can fight back."

Sigurd's eyes hardened. "A dark sect mage… Just what kind of magic is he capable of?"

I didn't answer immediately. The memory of our failed attempt on Sandima's life still burned. His magic was unlike anything I'd faced before—suffused with malice and raw, terrifying strength.

"Whatever it is," I said finally, "it's not something we can take lightly."

---

The air outside Sigurd's office was crisp, carrying the scent of charred wood and the distant clamor of reconstruction. The castle grounds were alive with activity—hammers striking nails, the murmur of commands, and the occasional call of soldiers coordinating repairs. The damage from the siege still scarred the landscape, but there was a sense of movement, of recovery.

I exhaled slowly, rolling my shoulders to shake off the tension from the meeting. It hadn't gone badly—Jamke had shown remorse, and Sigurd had been his usual diplomatic self—but the gravity of our situation weighed heavily on me.

I needed to clear my head and the training hall was the perfect place for that.

I adjusted my cloak and started down the stone corridor, my boots echoing in the empty space. The castle was still waking up around me—servants moved quietly, their arms full of supplies, and a few knights offered polite nods as they passed.

"Ray. Wait."

The familiar voice made me pause. I turned to see Jamke approaching, his strides quick but hesitant. He looked uncertain, like he wasn't sure if his presence would be welcome.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked, his tone even but cautious.

I raised an eyebrow, surprised. Of all the people I'd expected to follow me after the meeting, Jamke hadn't been one of them. But maybe it made sense—there were things we hadn't yet said.

"Sure," I replied after a beat. "Could use the company."

Jamke fell into step beside me as we made our way toward the training hall. The castle's early morning bustle softened around us, the rhythmic tap of our boots filling the silence.

"It's been a while," Jamke said after a moment, his voice quiet.

"Yeah," I agreed, my tone light. "Last time we saw each other, we were… a little preoccupied."

He snorted softly. "That's putting it mildly."

The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable, but it was heavy—weighted with everything we hadn't had the chance to address. The sound of our footsteps echoed against the stone walls.

"You never told me what happened after we split up," I said eventually, glancing at him.

Jamke's face darkened. "I led them away, like we planned. But Sandima's forces… they didn't let up. I barely escaped. By the time I circled back, you and Dave were gone. I thought you'd managed to escape both unscathed."

I nodded slowly, his words settling in my chest like lead. "Dave… he made sure I got out."

The name hung between us, a ghost neither of us could shake. I saw the flicker of guilt in Jamke's eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "If I'd known, if I'd been faster—"

"Don't," I interrupted, my voice gentle but firm. "We all did what we had to. Dave knew the risks. He made his choice." I hesitated, my voice softening. "And besides… he's not dead. I know it."

Jamke's eyes widened slightly. "You really believe that?"

"I have to," I said, my grip tightening on my cloak. "If I let myself think otherwise… Well, I'm not ready to give up on him yet."

Jamke nodded slowly, his expression resolute. "Then we'll find him. Once Sandima's gone for good—once this war is over—we'll find him. Together."

The words settled something inside me, easing a knot I hadn't realized was there. "Yeah," I said. "Together."

We walked in silence for a while, but eventually, Jamke broke the quiet.

"You know," he began thoughtfully, "I'm… glad we're working together again. Hunting Sandima, this time with a real chance. I should've trusted you and Dave more back then. Maybe if I had, things wouldn't have gone so wrong."

"We'll fix it," I said simply. "And this time, we're not walking into his traps."

Jamke nodded, but his expression grew darker. "About yesterday…" He hesitated. "I was reckless. My attack on the castle—if Edain had been hurt—"

I stopped abruptly, turning to face him. My eyes narrowed. I was trying not to think about that anymore.

"If you ever endanger Edain like that again," I said, my voice low and deadly serious, "I will make you regret it."

He swallowed, his brown eyes meeting mine without flinching. But then I saw it—the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

"Understood," he said, his voice steady.

I relaxed, letting the tension bleed away. "Good. Because I'm not above making a prince cry."

Jamke's eyebrows lifted. "Cry?"

"Oh, come on," I teased. "You should've seen yourself yesterday. All those tears when you realized it was Edain that walked out to meet you… I didn't know you had it in you."

His face flushed, and I laughed outright.

"You're insufferable," he muttered, though there was no real heat in his words.

"You'll get used to it," I shot back.

He shook his head, but there was amusement in his eyes. "Still," he said more seriously, "I meant what I said. About fixing things. This time, we end Sandima's hold over Verdane. And this time, no one gets left behind."

"Agreed," I said softly.

We kept walking toward the training hall, the weight of the past still there—but a little lighter now.

Jamke and I advanced steadily toward the training hall, the rhythmic echo of our footfalls filling the stone corridor. The muted torchlight cast elongated shadows along the walls, lending the passage an air of uneasy stillness—until the sharp click of hurried steps broke through the quiet. The sound was deliberate, refined, each footfall was precise rather than hasty. I turned just in time to hear the voice that followed.

"Prince Jamke! A moment, if you would."

Jamke halted immediately, his back straightening as though a tension he hadn't anticipated had just settled across his shoulders. I frowned slightly, my gaze landing on the figure approaching us with poised certainty.

Edain was the picture of noble grace, every movement composed, every detail immaculate. Even here, in the heart of a fortress now occupied by soldiers and hardened warriors, she carried herself with the dignity of one who belonged not to the battlefield, but to grand halls where diplomacy reigned over steel. Her golden hair, pinned neatly into an elegant arrangement, gleamed under the flickering light. Not a single thread of her gown was out of place, as though the chaos of war could never hope to touch her. Yet beneath that refined exterior, there was no mistaking the quiet resolve in her eyes.

Jamke's expression softened, though a flicker of unease lingered behind his otherwise composed demeanor. "Edain?" His voice was quiet, laced with both respect and something more cautious. "What are you doing here?"

"I was looking for Dew," she admitted, tucking a stray strand of hair back with an absentminded elegance that seemed almost rehearsed. "But I am glad I found you. There is something I wanted to ask…and needed to say." Her gaze flickered briefly to me, a silent acknowledgment, before settling fully on Jamke. "You told me you would try to persuade your father… and yet, here you are, taking the field yourself. Why, Jamke? Why would you fight when you already know the truth?"

Jamke's jaw tightened. The question lingered between them, heavy with the weight of something he did not want to voice. At last, he exhaled sharply. "Because my words could no longer reach him," he said, his voice quieter now, tinged with something dangerously close to regret. "My father has changed. Ever since that sorcerer, Sandima, arrived, my family has obeyed his every command. My father doesn't listen to me anymore, Edain. No one does."

Edain's hands tightened in front of her, gloved fingers pressing together. There was a sadness in her expression, fleeting yet unmistakable. But it did not linger. Instead, something softer replaced it—an understanding that transcended words.

"That is why I am so grateful you have chosen to stand with us," she said, her voice gentle yet unwavering. "I know this decision could not have come easily for you. You have risked everything, and I… I want you to know how much that means."

Jamke shook his head. "I did what needed to be done," he said firmly, though a stiffness in his posture betrayed the conflict within. "But understand this—I will fight Sandima. I will do whatever it takes to free Verdane from his grasp. But my father… I will not allow harm to come to him. No matter what."

That was my cue. "And no one's asking you to," I interjected smoothly, crossing my arms. "We're not here to destroy Verdane or kill its king. We're here to stop the bastard pulling the strings. Whatever's happening to your father, we all know the real culprit—and we're going to cut it off at the root."

Jamke studied me for a long moment, his gaze scrutinizing, weighing my words as though testing their worth. Finally, he gave a single, firm nod. "As long as that's understood."

Edain smiled then, a warm, reassuring smile that spoke not just of gratitude, but of unwavering faith in the people around her. "Thank you, Jamke," she said, and there was no doubt in my mind that she meant every word. "You truly are a good man. And with you by our side, I believe we have a real chance of ending this war without further bloodshed."

For just a second, Jamke hesitated. His carefully composed mask slipped, and in its place, something far more human surfaced. There was uncertainty in his posture, in the slight shift of his stance. And—oh, would you look at that—a hint of color rising to his cheeks.

Oh, this was too good.

"You know, Jamke, for someone who claims to be a hardened warrior, you sure get flustered easily," I quipped, letting a smirk creep onto my face.

Jamke shot me a look so sharp it could have skewered a man. Meanwhile, Edain let out a soft, barely restrained laugh, quickly covering her mouth as though even that small moment of unfiltered amusement was improper.

The tension in the corridor eased, just slightly. The weight of war was still present, looming, but for one fleeting moment, we allowed ourselves something lighter.

---

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long, golden shadows over the thinning woods, our group pressed forward. The air was thick with humidity, making every step feel heavier, and the faint hum of insects provided a constant background to our march. Despite the cooling evening breeze, the heat clung stubbornly to our skin, and the tension in the air remained palpable. The day's progress had been steady, but the weight of what lay ahead—Sandima's magic, the looming battle—still lingered like an unspoken warning.

"Thank God we have Jamke and his new, not-spirit-forest route toward the castle," I said, letting out a dramatic sigh and wiping the sweat from my brow. "I would've probably screamed if we got lost in there one more time."

Jamke chuckled, his voice light but tinged with familiarity. "So you've been to the spirit forest before, huh?" he said, his tone casual but curious. "It's a miracle you made it out alive—and even more so on the same day."

"You can say that again," I muttered, shuddering at the memory of the endless, twisting trees and that oppressive darkness. "If I never see another tree in my life, it'll still be too soon."

Jamke smiled faintly but kept his eyes on the horizon. "I'm beginning to see the twin castles of Verdane," he said, his voice softening with a hint of nostalgia. "If you're feeling the heat, try to endure it just a little longer. We're almost there."

"Thank you, Prince Jamke," Sigurd said, his tone warm and sincere. "Without your guidance, we would've been wandering aimlessly through that forest."

"Again," I added under my breath, earning a knowing smirk from Jamke.

"This route is far more manageable," Jamke continued, his voice taking on a more serious note. "The spirit forest… it's different. Pitch black even at midday, and the trees grow so thick that you can barely move through them. Unless you've lived there, you won't find your way out."

Sigurd's expression grew thoughtful. "Prince Jamke, from here, which direction is the spirit forest?"

Jamke squinted toward the distant treeline, his brow furrowing in concentration. "East of here," he said finally. "Close to the lake. You want to take another look?"

Sigurd hesitated, his eyes drifting toward the woods. There was something in his expression—an ache, maybe—something I recognized but couldn't quite name.

"I wouldn't recommend it," Jamke said, his voice quieting. "They say anyone who grows close to the maiden who lives there… Well, they say something terrible happens. I've never met her myself, but the stories…" He trailed off, shaking his head.

Sigurd's face hardened. "I don't believe in that. It's just a silly superstition." But when he spoke again, his words were barely above a whisper. "I want to see her again… If things keep going on like this, it will be miserable… for both her… and myself…"

The mood grew heavier after that, and we continued our march in silence, the only sound the rustling of leaves and the distant calls of evening birds.

As twilight gave way to night, we finally made camp at the edge of the forest on Jamke's suggestion. The air cooled, and the sounds of the forest shifted into the soft chirping of nocturnal creatures. The flicker of torches and the gentle crackle of campfires filled the space with a brief sense of calm—a quiet before the storm.

Inside the largest tent, Sigurd, Quan, Jamke, and I gathered around a makeshift table covered in maps and reports. The dim light of the lanterns cast long shadows over our faces, heightening the gravity of the discussion.

"So, as far as we're concerned," Quan began, his voice steady and serious, "we don't know the full extent of Sandima's magic. We'd better not approach the castle without caution."

Jamke's face tightened with frustration. "I apologize… Things would've been better if I'd investigated more thoroughly. I should have seen this coming."

"Especially after what happened last time," I added, my voice low. The memory of our failed attempt still stung.

"Don't take it the wrong way," Quan said quickly. "We're not blaming you. What you've shared so far has been invaluable."

"Indeed," Sigurd agreed. "Without your insights, we wouldn't have known about the royal palace guards or the structure of their command. If anything, I should be the one apologizing—for asking you to stand against your own country and family."

"It can't be helped," Jamke said, his voice resolute. "This is for the sake of defeating Sandima and bringing my father back to his senses. Even if I'm labeled a traitor… this is something I have to do."

He left after that, his shoulders squared but his steps heavy.

As the tent flap fell shut behind him, the three of us remained in the dim light.

"So, Ray," Sigurd said, turning toward me with that familiar, expectant look. "Any bright ideas on how we should proceed?"

I leaned back in my chair, tapping a finger against the edge of the map. "I was thinking of sending a scout to the castle. I'm not saying Jamke's intel is unreliable—just that it might be outdated. We need fresh eyes on the situation."

Quan nodded thoughtfully. "And we still have to deal with those royal guards before we even reach Sandima's forces. If their numbers or positions have changed, we're going to need a revised plan."

Sigurd had been silent until now, his fingers tracing the worn edges of the map. When he finally spoke, his voice carried that unmistakable tone of determination.

"I may have an idea…"

I groaned, already bracing myself. "Oh, gods… This is going to be one of those plans, isn't it?"

---

Morning broke over the camp, the golden light spilling across the preparations for battle. The crisp air carried the scent of dew-dampened earth, but there was no serenity in the atmosphere—only the quiet hum of anticipation and the clink of armor as soldiers prepared themselves.

The strategy had finally been set: the combined cavalry power of Naoise and Alec's units would act as the advance party, tasked with crushing the royal guards stationed at the palace gates and paving the way for the main force.

I volunteered to go with them.

Sigurd and Quan's confusion was immediate and palpable.

"Why would you want to go?" Sigurd asked, his brow furrowed with concern.

"Do you believe they won't be able to handle the enemy forces?" Quan added, his tone tinged with curiosity.

Sigurd's expression shifted, a little more defensive now. "Or are you still doubting my plan?"

I shook my head, keeping my voice calm but firm. "No, it's not that. I just have a bad feeling about Sandima. I've tasted his magic before."

Their expressions darkened at my words.

"I don't think the spell he used on me was his usual one," I continued. "If I had to guess, it was a prototype or oa one time use even. But, if he can still use it now, he'll have to choose—either focus on our knights or focus entirely on me." I met Sigurd's gaze. "Just… let me go."

With that, the strategy meeting concluded.

Now, standing beside Alec and Naoise at the head of the cavalry column, I watched the morning sun gleam off their armor. Their units were mounted and ready, their horses restless beneath them. The tension in the air had only grown heavier.

"I'm trusting you guys to take care of this," Sigurd said as he, Quan, and—surprisingly—Ayra came to see us off. Ayra stood slightly apart, arms crossed, but I could feel her sharp gaze resting on me. There was a weight to her presence, though whether it was concern or judgment, I couldn't quite tell.

"Leave it to us, Lord Sigurd," Naoise replied with a respectful nod.

"All right, men!" Alec called out, his voice carrying over the assembled soldiers. "We're moving out!"

As the advance party surged forward, the main army began packing up camp, preparing to move closer and eventually besiege the castle.

[The skill 'Gale Stride' is being activated]

I activated my wind magic, letting it gather around me in a subtle but steady current, allowing me to keep pace with the mounted units at the head of the column.

The rush of air kept me cool and alert.

"Don't fall behind Naoise's unit!" Alec teased, his usual lightheartedness masking the tension of the moment.

"As if we have time to play," Naoise shot back, his tone clipped but familiar.

"There's always time to see who's faster!" Alec grinned.

I might have joined their banter, but a sudden, overwhelming wave of bloodlust stopped me cold. It wasn't just the usual killing intent of an enemy commander—it was something deeper, something ancient and vile, curling around my senses like suffocating smoke. My stomach twisted with unease, my instincts screaming at me that something was horribly wrong.

[The skill 'Bloodlust Perception' has been triggered]

"Why am I only feeling this now?" I muttered under my breath.

And then—

A scream. A knight's voice, raw with terror.

"AAAHHH! What's that!?"

I turned my gaze upward just in time to see the air itself darken, as though reality had been twisted and stretched too thin. From that abyss, a massive, flaming skull emerged, wreathed in an eerie, flickering purple fire that pulsed unnaturally, feeding on the very air around it. But it wasn't just the fire that sent ice through my veins—it was the sound.

A chorus of wailing voices.

Not just echoes, but spirits. Dozens, maybe hundreds of tortured souls, bound to this monstrous spell, their distorted cries rising and falling in agonized, endless lament. They spiraled around the burning skull, their forms shifting, flickering, as if they were trying to claw their way free from whatever terrible fate had bound them here.

Somehow, knew what was happening.

Alec's voice was tight, barely above a whisper. "What the hell is that…?"

Fenrir.

An endgame-tier spell, a masterpiece of destruction, formed by condensing a massive amount of dark magic and igniting it with cursed flames.

The skull pulsed, and its flames twisted, unraveling into separate tendrils of fire. The spectral voices shrieked louder as the flames broke apart, splitting into dozens of smaller fireballs that shot toward our formation with terrifying speed.

'Something's strange.'

My mind was already racing.

'This isn't just your run-off-the-mill dark magic—it's a hybrid dark spell with a curse embedded into it somehow. If I can analyze its composition, I might be able to break the spell at its core before it reaches us.'

Don't ask me how I knew all that, I wouldn't be able to answer. I just knew.

[The skill 'Analyze' is being activated]

A wave of magical energy shot forward, seeking the structure of the incoming spell—only to crash against something solid and immovable.

Error: Your understanding of the spell is too low. Unable to execute the command.

My breath hitched.

'Too low? What do you mean my understanding is too low!? I thought I could bypass that by using loads of magical energy?'

You cannot just bulldoze your way through every spell you encounter.

The realization sank in like a stone.

The system wasn't wrong. I am originally not of this world. I've been here for around a year only and known about magic for less than that. How was I suppose to grasp the essence behind Dark Magic, much less one in such a high level spell that even in the game they had to use a cheat known as "Silence".

A split-second of hesitation.

Too slow.

Too late.

"FALL BACK!" Naoise bellowed, but the warning came at the same time the fireballs shrieked downward.

"Tsk."

[The skill 'Blades of Zephyr' is being activated]

"Damn it!" I hissed, my hands already moving. Wind gathered and sharpened at my fingertips, my magic responding instinctively. With a sharp motion, I released a flurry of crescent-shaped blades, aiming to cut through the incoming flames before they could reach our forces.

The wind magic slashed through several of them, thankfully dispersing the cursed fire into harmless embers—but it wasn't enough. The spirits within the spell fought back, their shrieking forms twisting around my magic, resisting its influence, and some of the fireballs slammed into our ranks with devastating force.

The moment they struck, the flames didn't just burn—they consumed. Purple fire clung to armor and flesh alike, burning without smoke, without scent, as if feeding on something beyond the physical. The knights caught in the blast didn't even have time to scream properly—their voices were drowned out by the spirits' wailing as the cursed flames devoured them whole.

I watched, helpless, as almost half of our knights fell under the assault. The battlefield fell into a grim silence, the acrid scent of scorched earth filling the air.

"Ray!" Alec's voice snapped me out of my despair. He was scanning the chaotic field, his eyes wide with panic. "Have you seen Naoise? I can't find him!"

Before I could answer, I saw it—a pale flame streaking toward Alec.

"Watch out!" I shouted, already moving.

My body acted before my mind could catch up. I slammed into Alec, shoving him aside just as the flame shot past.

For a fleeting second, I felt relief.

And then the fire hit me squarely in the back.

'Oh,' I thought distantly as I crumpled to the ground. 'I almost forgot about this.'

Alec's frantic shouting faded in and out as he shook me.

You have been afflicted with a curse.

A couple seconds passed—maybe more—before my eyes snapped open.

The curse has been neutralized.

I sat up slowly, feeling… fine. No burns. No pain. Only confusion.

'What the…'

"Ray! You're—how—" Alec's face was a mixture of shock and relief.

I didn't have time for answers. I didn't have any answer.

"Alec," I said sharply, cutting through his confusion. "We need to regroup. Get the knights who can still fight, mount the fallen on their horses, or on yours, and lead as many as you can back to camp."

"But we can't move them all!" Alec protested. "There are too many down! What about the ones we leave behind—"

"No one will be left behind." My voice left no room for argument. "They're still alive—I can feel it. Every single one of them. That means we can still save them."

Alec stared at me, his eyes searching mine. "Naoise…?"

"He's among the fallen," I confirmed. "But he's alive."

Alec swallowed hard, nodding. "All right… I'll get them moving."

"Good. We'll have time for explanations later. For now—move!"

"YESSIR!" Alec shouted, turning to rally the remaining knights.

As they began their retreat, I stayed behind, the wind gathering around me once more. We weren't done here. Not yet.

I turned toward the castle, my eyes narrowing as I felt the oppressive magic pulsing from within its walls.

"Sandima…" I muttered, the wind whipping around me in fierce anticipation. "I'm coming for you."

[The skill 'Gale Stride' is being activated]

We ran.

As fast as we could.

The thunder of boots and the heavy thud of hooves filled the air, accompanied by the labored breathing of men pushing themselves to their limits. The urgency in the air was suffocating, and fear rode alongside us like an unwelcomed companion. The acrid scent of burnt flesh and charred earth still clung to my nostrils, making it impossible to forget the hell we'd just escaped.

Most of the horses had been left behind—their fear of the flames made them skittish and impossible to control—and the knights still able to move carried their incapacitated comrades on the few remaining mounts. Others led riderless horses burdened with the unconscious, struggling to keep them steady.

I didn't have that leeway.

MP: 300/650

MP: 298/650

MP: 297/650

MP: 295/650

The steady drain of my mana felt like a slow bleed. It was a new experience, to see my mana trickle like that, slowly, gradually. And even my magic regeneration skill couldn't outpace the rate of expenditure.

Gale Stride usually allowed me to move myself—and objects around my weight—with barely much energy used. But this time, I was carrying around ten people with me, their combined weight pressing against my reserves like an iron yoke. My body felt like it was moving through water, every step more laborious than the last. My breathing came in ragged gasps, and my vision threatened to blur at the edges.

But I kept running.

My muscles screamed in protest, but I ignored them. The pressure in my chest grew heavier with every step. I focused on the faces of the men I was carrying—their pale, sweat-drenched skin, their shallow breaths. I couldn't let them die. I wouldn't let them die.

MP: 100/650

The sight of the camp's sentries was a relief I didn't dare show. At the sight of Alec's frantic gestures and our bedraggled state, they raised their weapons in alarm—only to lower them immediately when they recognized us. Alec shouted for the healers before we had even crossed the threshold, his voice cracking from exhaustion and desperation.

The medical tent was already in chaos when we arrived.

Ethlyn and Edain moved through the throng of wounded with relentless urgency, their faces pale but focused. The air was thick with the acrid scent of blood and burnt flesh, and the moans of injured soldiers created an oppressive symphony of suffering. Black blood stained the ground in sickly puddles, oozing from wounds that wouldn't close. The soldiers' skin had turned an unnatural shade—darkish blue, almost necrotic—like life was slowly being siphoned from their bodies.

It was like something out of a nightmare.

One soldier convulsed violently, his back arching off the cot as his breath gurgled in his throat. Dark ichor spilled from his lips, his fingers clawing at the sheets. Another knight lay deathly still, his skin marred by dark, vein-like patterns creeping up his arms and neck. Their eyes were wide, bloodshot, filled with fear—and pain. The stench of decay clung to them, and I felt my stomach twist violently.

I forced myself to move, grabbing a work cloth and tying it around my waist. There was no time to think—only act.

Ethlyn's voice cut through the chaos a few minutes later. "Hang in there!" she urged a soldier, pressing a glowing staff to his chest. The light of her magic flickered weakly before sputtering out entirely.

Edain's voice was tight with panic. "Ethlyn… What's happening? The Restore staff—it's barely working!"

The hopelessness in her tone made my chest ache.

The sound of hurried footsteps announced Sigurd's arrival. He stopped just inside the tent, his face going pale as he took in the carnage. His usual composure cracked, horror plain in his wide eyes.

"What… is this…?"

Behind him, Quan, Jamke, and Alec followed, their expressions equally grim. I wiped my bloodied hands on the cloth and approached them as Alec began recounting what had happened.

"…and then these pale flames started launching themselves at us," Alec said, his voice trembling. "Everyone hit by them ended up like… this."

"A pale flame?" Sigurd repeated, his brow furrowing.

"It was most likely the Fenrir tome," I said, my voice flat and controlled. "A high-level, strategic-scale dark spell—only accessible to dark cultists of considerable power. Its destructive capability is matched only by its side effects. Anyone with subpar magical resistance… Well, this is what happens."

I gestured at the suffering soldiers, their bodies wrecked by dark magic.

"Then why aren't you like this?" Alec's question sliced through the air.

The others turned to him in confusion, and he quickly explained.

"He jumped in front of one of those flames—to save me. And he was the one who blocked most of the attacks aimed at the knights. But he… he's fine."

All eyes fell on me.

"I don't know," I admitted, the words heavy on my tongue. "Maybe my magical resistance is just that high."

It wasn't a lie… but it didn't feel like the truth either. Even I didn't know why the curse didn't take effect.

Before they could press further, a ragged cough drew our attention. Naoise's hand reached weakly toward Sigurd.

"Lord… Sigurd…"

Sigurd rushed to his side, taking his hand with gentle urgency.

"I'm here, Naoise. I'm here."

"I'm… so… sorry…" Naoise's voice cracked, his breath shallow and labored.

"Don't you dare die on me," Sigurd whispered fiercely. "Stay strong. Please…"

But Naoise's eyes drifted shut, his breathing faint and uneven.

Sigurd stood slowly, his shoulders trembling as his eyes remained fixed on his friend's motionless form.

"I was careless," he whispered. "I didn't know the enemy had long-range magic… but I should have been more cautious. I should have known."

"It's not your fault," Quan said softly. "None of us knew."

Sigurd's eyes blazed as he turned on his old friend. "You heard Alec! If not for Ray, they all would have died!"

And then his gaze locked on me—sharp, suspicious.

"Is this why you insisted on going?" he demanded. "Did you know this would happen?"

The accusation stole the air from my lungs.

I opened my mouth—then closed it again. The words wouldn't come.

"Why aren't you answering?!" Sigurd's voice cracked with anger and desperation.

"Enough!" Quan snapped, stepping between us.

Sigurd's face twisted with frustration, but he turned away. Jamke bowed deeply.

"My apologies," he said quietly. "If I had known the extent of Sandima's power, I would have warned you sooner."

"It's not your fault," Sigurd said, his voice hollow. "It's mine. All of it… is my misjudgment." He pushed past us and left the tent without another word.

"Sigurd!" Quan called after him, but the prince didn't stop.

Quan hesitated, then followed with a quick apology.

That left only Jamke and me.

"Ray!" Jamke's voice broke through my daze. "I've called your name three times—are you all right?"

I forced myself to meet his gaze. "I… I'll be fine."

The words felt empty.

I rolled up my sleeves and turned back to the rows of suffering soldiers.

"You should go," I said quietly. "This place… it's going to get a lot busier."

Jamke hesitated, but finally nodded and left without another word.

And so I went back to work, pushing down the storm of doubt and fear as I followed Edain and Ethlyn's orders.

There was no room for weakness. Not here. Not now.

---

The night air was cool, crisp, and carried the scent of pine and distant campfires. The gentle hush of the camp settling down for the evening wrapped around me like a comforting blanket, but it did little to quiet my thoughts.

I stepped out of the medical tent, the lingering scent of herbs and antiseptic still clinging to my clothes, and stretched my aching arms above my head. Ethlyn and Edain's words of gratitude echoed in my ears, their warmth genuine, but I brushed them off with my usual easy grin. I told them it was nothing — that anyone would have done the same — but I knew better.

The images wouldn't leave me. The wounded men, their pained moans, the sight of blackened veins crawling across their skin. The stench of blood and the fear in their eyes. And behind it all, Sigurd's words echoed like a relentless drumbeat.

"Did you know this would happen?"

The accusation had been like a blade, sharp and unexpected. No matter how I turned it over in my mind, I couldn't shake it. Could I have done more? Was there something I missed? If I had tried harder, could I have saved them all? That question twisted itself around my heart like a vice.

So lost was I in my thoughts that I didn't even notice Ayra approaching until her voice cut through the spiral.

"I've been looking for you," she said, her tone calm but carrying that usual sternness.

"For me?" I blinked, trying to gather myself. "Should I be worried?"

She snorted — which was as close to laughter as Ayra usually got. "Come with me," she said, already turning on her heel.

I followed without question. It was easy to fall into step beside her.

We made light conversation as we walked, Ayra surprising me with an occasional dry joke. At one point, she raised an eyebrow and asked, "Are you considering a career change to a healer? You seemed quite at home in the medical tent."

That actually earned a laugh from me — a real one. "You know me," I said, grinning. "Always ready to pick up a new hobby. Maybe I'll trade in my spells for a staff."

"It would suit you," she replied, and I couldn't quite tell if she was teasing or not.

Then, more quietly, she added, "I'm… glad you're alright. I know it's selfish, considering everything that happened, but… I am."

For a moment, I didn't know what to say. Ayra wasn't one for open sentiment. I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye and saw her gaze fixed straight ahead, her expression carefully neutral.

"It's not selfish," I said softly. "It's human."

The silence that followed was comfortable, stretching between us like an old familiarity. Soon we reached her tent, and any flicker of apprehension I felt melted away when I stepped inside and saw Shannan sitting upright on his bed.

He looked better than I'd last seen him, but the signs of his ordeal were still there — the thinness of his frame, the exhaustion lingering in his eyes. But there was life in him too, and the hint of a mischievous smile.

"Ray!" he greeted, his voice warm despite his obvious fatigue. "You took your time."

"Well, you know me," I said, matching his grin. "Dramatic entrances and all."

Ayra settled herself at the edge of the tent, watching us with a quiet fondness I wasn't sure she was aware of. And so began a night of conversation—one we were all long overdue for.

We started with lighthearted topics at first — Shannan's adventures, the ridiculous scrapes he'd managed to get himself into. He spoke with the enthusiasm of a child who wanted to prove his bravery, and despite everything, it was good to see that spark hadn't been extinguished. Ayra, of course, offered her occasional exasperated input, often shaking her head as Shannan exaggerated his tales.

"So there I was," Shannan began dramatically, his eyes gleaming, "deep in the woods of Isaach, on the trail of the legendary Golden Stag Beetle! They say it only shows itself to the bravest warriors—"

"—Or to anyone who knows where to look under the right tree," Ayra cut in dryly.

Shannan shot her an indignant look. "I was looking under the right tree! Anyway—just when I thought I'd lost the trail, I heard this buzzing sound, like thunder! I followed it through the underbrush, silent as a shadow—"

"You tripped over a root and fell face-first into a bush," Ayra supplied.

"I meant to do that," Shannan huffed. "It was a tactical maneuver. And then I saw it! The biggest, shiniest beetle you've ever seen! I swear it was this big—" He held his hands apart in a size that no beetle had ever realistically been.

I raised an eyebrow. "That sounds less like a beetle and more like a wyvern."

"It was very big," Shannan insisted. "But just as I was about to catch it—"

"You fell into the stream," Ayra finished, her lips twitching.

Shannan crossed his arms, sulking. "You're ruining the story."

I laughed. "I don't know, I think Ayra's version is even better. Besides, I'm starting to think the beetle was the real winner here."

"It got away," Shannan muttered.

"Smart beetle," Ayra murmured with rare fondness.

Later, as the night deepened, the conversation shifted.

"I've been getting really good at my sword forms," Shannan declared proudly. "There was this one time when I almost landed a perfect strike on Ayra!"

I glanced at Ayra. "Is that true?"

Ayra tilted her head. "He did almost land a strike. Right before his foot slipped."

Shannan's face turned red. "It didn't slip! I was… adjusting my stance!"

"While falling," Ayra added.

I tried — and failed — to keep a straight face. "That's a very advanced technique."

"I recovered," Shannan insisted. "And if I hadn't been distracted—"

"By your own shouting?" Ayra asked.

Shannan threw his hands up. "Why do you even come to my practices if you're just going to ruin my stories?"

"To make sure you don't stab yourself in the foot," Ayra replied smoothly.

"Well," I said, "I'd say you're getting there. Next time, maybe try staying on your feet."

"I do stay on my feet!" Shannan protested. "Most of the time!"

Ayra's soft chuckle was barely audible, but I caught it — and from the way Shannan glared, so did he.

The conversation slowed after that, and we sat in comfortable silence. Outside, the sounds of the camp faded, leaving only the occasional crackle of a fire.

"He's going to give me gray hair before I'm thirty," she muttered at one point, and Shannan just laughed.

"It's not exaggerating if it's all true," Shannan protested, puffing out his chest.

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And how exactly did you fight off an entire squad of bandits with a stick and 'a warrior's spirit'?"

Shannan flushed, crossing his arms. "You weren't there. You don't know."

"I think I'm starting to get a picture," I teased, earning an amused snort from Ayra.

As the night deepened, the conversation shifted to heavier topics. We spoke of the battle — the siege, the strange magic Sandima had unleashed. The weight in the room changed as we discussed the soldiers we'd lost and the ones still fighting for their lives.

"It's hard," Shannan said quietly, his earlier bravado fading. "Knowing there's so much I can't do."

"You've done more than most," Ayra told him firmly. "You survived. That's more than enough."

But I could see the doubt in his eyes — a doubt I knew all too well.

"Sometimes surviving feels like the hardest thing," I said. "But it's also the most important."

"But what if that's not enough?" Shannan burst out, his voice cracking. "I'm supposed to be strong. I'm the prince of Isaach! Everyone expects me to—"

"Be perfect?" I interrupted gently. "That's a heavy burden for anyone, let alone a kid."

"I'm not a kid!" he snapped, his face flushing again.

"Shannan," Ayra's voice was quiet but firm. "No one expects you to carry this alone."

He looked between us, frustration warring with the vulnerability he was trying so hard to hide.

"Strength isn't about doing everything by yourself," I added. "It's about knowing when to rely on others. And it's okay to be scared. It's okay to not know everything yet. That's why you have people like Ayra. Like me. We've got your back."

The night stretched on, our words weaving between the heavy and the light, the serious and the absurd. We spoke of family and of the future. We talked of fear and hope, of the weight of expectation and the freedom of laughter.

At one point, Shannan looked at me with rare seriousness. "You take care of everyone," he said softly. "But who takes care of you?"

I blinked, clearly caught off guard. "I… manage."

"That's not an answer," Ayra pointed out gently.

"Well, at the beginning I had Dave…" I trailed off, unsure of how to end that particular line of thought. I looked between the two of them, and for a moment, the ironclad warrior softened. " But I have you both now, right?" I said quietly. "That should be more than enough."

The conversation slowed after that, the three of us sitting in a comfortable silence. Outside, the sounds of the camp had faded, leaving only the occasional crackle of a fire or the distant murmur of voices.

"We should get some rest," Ayra finally said, her voice soft.

I nodded, though I wasn't sure sleep would find me easily.

But for the first time that day, the storm in my mind had quieted.

---

The morning sun crept over the horizon, casting long golden rays over the camp. Despite the beauty of the early light, the air was thick with tension. Urgent whispers floated through the camp, soldiers moved with uncharacteristic haste, and the usual morning calm had been replaced with a frantic energy. Something was definitely wrong.

I stretched my limbs, trying to shake off the stiffness from the night before. The pleasant memory of my late-night conversation with Ayra and Shannan felt distant now, overshadowed by the unmistakable undercurrent of anxiety rippling through the camp. Every sound felt sharper, every movement more frantic.

Just then, Oifey came running toward me, his face flushed and breathless from exertion. The sheer panic in his eyes set my nerves on edge.

"Ray… Lord Quan… is looking for you," he managed between gasps.

I frowned, the knot in my stomach tightening. "What happened?"

"I… don't know for sure," he admitted, shaking his head. "But it's serious."

My heart pounded faster as my pace quickened. My mind immediately leapt to the worst-case scenario. Sandima. Another attack? But no — if that dark mage had made his move, my Bloodlust Perception would've already picked up on it.

That's when it hit me.

'…Has that skill ever worked on anyone but me…?'

That unsettling thought stuck with me as I reached the command tent. I pushed the flap aside and stepped inside, immediately sensing the thick, almost suffocating atmosphere.

Quan stood at the center, pacing with an air of barely contained frustration. Ethlyn and Edain sat nearby, their faces pale and drawn with worry. Jamke stood off to the side, arms crossed, his usual stoic demeanor cracked with unease.

"Morning," I said, my voice breaking the heavy silence. "What's going on?"

"Well, you see…" Edain tried to explain, but was cut off by the sound of a fist hitting a wooden table.

Quan's head snapped up, his voice harsh and tight. "It's already morning, damn it! Why hasn't Sigurd returned yet?"

Ethlyn placed a calming hand on his arm. "Quan, please—"

"He may have gotten lost in the forest," Jamke offered grimly. "If that's the case… we're in serious trouble."

"I shouldn't have let him go off alone," Quan muttered, his voice low with guilt. "I'm the only one he has to rely on right now…"

The fear in the room was infectious, and I felt it starting to take root in my own mind.

"What happened?" I demanded, my gaze bouncing between their worried faces. "Where's Sigurd?"

Edain's voice was soft but steady. "He said he wanted to be alone… He went for a ride yesterday."

"But he hasn't come back," Ethlyn finished quietly.

The implications hit me hard. Could this be another one of Sandima's tricks? My fists clenched at my sides as my mind spun with possibilities.

Before my thoughts could spiral any further, a sudden commotion outside the tent shattered the stillness.

"An attack—?!" I started, already preparing a spell, but the panic in Ethlyn's eyes stopped me.

We rushed outside, our hearts pounding in collective fear. Soldiers had gathered, their anxious murmurs rising into a worried hum.

But then—

"Sigurd!!" Quan's voice cut through the noise, filled with sheer relief.

We turned, and there he was, riding toward us as if nothing were amiss.

"Quan? Guys?" Sigurd blinked at our stunned expressions. "What's with the looks on your faces?"

The sheer nonchalance in his voice made something in me snap.

"You—!" I started, but Ethlyn beat me to it.

"IT'S NOT 'WHAT IS IT?!'" she exploded, marching forward. "You didn't come back until morning! We thought—everyone thought—Quan was worried sick about you!"

Quan tried to calm her, placing a hand on the top of her head. "That's enough, Ethlyn. He's back safely. That's what matters."

"You're too nice!" she huffed, her face still flushed with frustration. But the relief in her voice softened the words.

Sigurd finally looked remorseful — some recognition of the chaos he'd caused. "I… apologize. I ended up heading to the lakeside without realizing how much time had passed." He turned to his sister with a warm, almost teasing smile. "Even Ethlyn was worried about me."

"I don't know what you're talking about!" she huffed, arms crossed and eyes averted. "I'm angry, just so you know. The crime of making my precious Quan worry is deeper than the Mariana Trench!"

'Where in the world did she even hear about the Mariana Trench?' I wondered, baffled.

That's when I noticed her.

A woman stepped closer to Sigurd's side, silver hair catching the morning light. She was beautiful in a soft, otherworldly way, her presence almost ethereal. She smiled shyly, leaning toward Sigurd as if unsure of the attention suddenly on her.

"I see Lord Sigurd is loved here," she said softly.

Sigurd's expression softened. "It's a place that reminds me of home."

Ethlyn's eyes widened. "She's so pretty… Silver hair… How lovely…"

Edain gasped suddenly, her hands clasping together. "Ah! I know her!"

Ethlyn turned sharply. "You do?"

Edain nodded, her eyes lighting up with recognition. "I told you about her — the fairy I met at Marpha! Ethlyn, you said you wanted to meet her!"

The woman blushed deeply. "P-pleasure to meet you. But I'm just an ordinary person…"

Sigurd chuckled, resting a hand gently on her head. "There's no need to be so tense."

The reaction was instant.

"Could it be…?" Ethlyn's voice trembled.

Jamke's eyebrows rose in surprise.

I stepped forward, unable to resist. "So you finally found your fairy lady, huh?"

Sigurd's smile widened. "Yes."

Ethlyn's finger shot out accusingly. "NO WAY! She's way too good for you, brother!"

Sigurd clutched his chest in mock agony. "Even my own sister would betray me… Truly, I am the most wretched of men…"

Quan clapped him on the back, grinning. "For gods' sake, Sigurd. You're always so composed, and now you pull this off? You sly dog."

Ethlyn blushed furiously, stealing glances at them. "Such happy news, isn't it…?"

Jamke chuckled, watching the scene unfold. "Yeah… It really is."

And despite everything — the fear, the exhaustion — I found myself smiling, too.

---

The air in the command tent was thick with anticipation, almost suffocating. The usual shuffle of maps and strategic discussions was absent, replaced by a strange stillness as everyone waited for Sigurd to speak. He stood at the head of the table, his expression serious but with an undercurrent of hope I hadn't seen in days—hope, and something else. Determination, maybe. Or desperation. His hands rested on the table, fingers curled slightly as if bracing for impact.

Outside, the faint clatter of armor and distant murmurs of soldiers added to the tension, but inside, no one dared to break the silence.

"I found a way to deal with Sandima's magic," Sigurd announced, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

The effect was immediate. Quan straightened, his sharp blue eyes narrowing with scrutiny. "Are you certain? Sandima's magic has already cost us too much. We can't afford any more miscalculations." His usual steady confidence was tinged with the weight of their losses, his grip tightening on the book he was holding.

Jamke, standing at the far end of the table, crossed his arms. His jaw was tight, his expression unreadable, but I could see it—the simmering anger beneath the surface. "That dark mage… if there's a way to neutralize him, we need to know it. What's the plan?" His voice was steady, but the way his fingers twitched slightly against his bicep told me he was restraining something deeper.

The man wanted vengeance—and I couldn't blame him. The memory of his fallen kin was still fresh, and Sandima was the architect of their suffering.

Although I had an inkling of what he was about to say, even I found myself leaning in, my mind already running through possibilities. After everything we had seen—the devastation Sandima's spells had wrought—any solution was worth hearing. The stench of charred earth, the sight of men torn apart by unseen forces, the cries of the wounded still echoed in my mind. We needed an answer.

Before Sigurd could speak, Deirdre stepped forward. She moved with a quiet grace, her presence still strange and new among us. Despite her delicate appearance, there was a strength in the way she held herself, as if some unseen force guided her movements.

All eyes turned to her, the room unconsciously holding its breath. Even the flickering torchlight seemed to dim, as if acknowledging the gravity of her words before she even spoke.

"Allow me to explain," she said softly.

In her hands, she held a staff unlike any I had ever seen. It gleamed faintly even in the dim light of the tent, its design intricate and otherworldly. The engravings on its surface seemed to shift in the flickering torchlight, as if imbued with a fearsome power. A soft hum, almost imperceptible, resonated from it.

"This is the Silence staff," Deirdre said. Her voice was calm, but there was a hint of nervousness in her eyes, a subtle hesitation that hadn't been there before. "It is a sacred relic of my village. With it, I can render a magic user completely incapable of casting spells. If I can strike Sandima with this, his magic will be sealed away."

A murmur of hope rippled through the room. Oifey let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, and Alec exchanged a glance with Lex, both of them nodding in unspoken agreement.

It was the first tangible solution we had to dealing with the dark mage who had turned this war into a bloodbath. But I caught the hesitation in Deirdre's eyes before she spoke again.

"There is one condition," she continued. "For the staff to work, my own magic power must be greater than his magical resistance. If it isn't… the spell will fail."

I nodded slowly, already piecing together a strategy. My mind raced through possibilities and formations. "Then we need to ensure Deirdre gets close enough to use the staff without being overwhelmed by his forces. We'll draw out Sandima's guards, create a diversion, and give her the opening she needs."

Sigurd looked relieved, his confidence returning. "Exactly. Ray, I'm counting on you to coordinate the attack."

"Consider it done," I said, my tone firm.

Some time later, after the strategy meeting had dispersed, the camp began to buzz with preparations. The clanging of armor and the shouts of soldiers filled the air as men rushed to prepare for the upcoming battle.

In the midst of it all, I found myself standing near the edge of camp, away from the organized chaos, staring at the dark horizon where our fate would soon be decided.

Sigurd found me there, approaching hesitantly. His usual composure was intact, but something about his gait was off. When he finally stopped beside me, he hesitated before speaking.

"Ray… I owe you an apology," he began.

I raised an eyebrow, though I'd expected this. "For what?"

"For my words yesterday," Sigurd said, his voice low. "I was… afraid. Seeing Naoise and the others like that, knowing it happened because of my orders… I lashed out. And I directed that fear at you. That was unfair."

For a moment, I didn't know how to respond. The anger and pain I'd felt was still there, a dull ember smoldering in my chest, but the weight of Sigurd's remorse softened it. And yet, it wasn't just anger I felt—it was frustration. Frustration at myself, at the situation, at the fact that I hadn't been able to prevent the bloodshed.

"You weren't entirely wrong," I said finally. My voice was quieter than I intended, but the words were steady. "I do take risks. I make calls that could get people hurt. If I'd been faster, if I'd been stronger… maybe more of them would still be standing."

Sigurd shook his head. "That's not true. You saved lives, Ray. Without you, the losses would have been far worse. I was wrong to question your intentions."

I met his gaze, the sincerity in his eyes clear. But part of me still held onto the doubt gnawing at my mind. "All I care about is protecting the people I've come to call my friends. I'll do whatever it takes to keep them safe—no matter the cost."

Sigurd nodded slowly. "I know. And I'm grateful for it. More than I can say."

I offered a faint smile, though it felt a little hollow. "Good. Then let's finish this."

As I walked away, I heard Sigurd's quiet voice behind me, almost too soft to catch.

"Ray…"

But whatever else he wanted to say, the words never came.

---

Midday.

The troops stood in perfect formation, lined in disciplined rows and columns, awaiting their next orders. Before them, Quan, Jamke, and I surveyed the assembled soldiers. Behind Sigurd, Oifey clutched a piece of parchment tightly, his knuckles white with tension. Whether it contained tactical notes, a message of strategy, or a declaration for after the battle, I couldn't say.

Sigurd took a step forward, exuding an air of unwavering confidence that rippled through the gathered knights and foot soldiers. His voice rang out, clear and commanding.

"Today, we correct the mistakes of the past. Sandima's sorcery will no longer dictate the flow of battle. Too many of our brothers and sisters have fallen to his dark magic, unable to fight back. But no more. Today, we bring the war to him, and with the strength of our steel and the power of our unity, Verdane will know peace once more."

The silence that followed was thick with anticipation, the soldiers hanging on his every word. Then, with a decisive motion, Sigurd turned slightly to Deirdre, presenting her as the answer to their struggles.

"This would not have been possible without Lady Deirdre," he continued, his voice steady, full of conviction. "Her power is the key to subduing the dark cultist. With her aid, Sandima's magic will be sealed, and we will strike without fear. For our fallen comrades. For the future of Verdane!"

A deafening roar of approval erupted from the troops. Cheers, applause, and the sound of swords clashing against shields filled the air. But even as the celebratory cries rose, hushed murmurs spread among the ranks, soldiers whispering amongst themselves.

"I heard that Lord Sigurd brought that lady to take as his bride," one knight murmured, barely containing his excitement.

A female soldier smirked, arms crossed. "I heard that too! Commander Alec mentioned something about it."

"Did he, now?" another teased, a knowing grin on his face.

"She is an extraordinarily beautiful woman," a knight admitted, nodding in agreement.

"Most importantly, that ability of hers…"

"With her sealing Sandima's magic… maybe we can finally avenge our friends."

As if sensing the energy in the air, Deirdre stepped forward, staff in hand. The Silence staff gleamed as she raised it high, and an unseen force pulsed outward, sending faint ripples through the air. She let it hover momentarily, rotating it with effortless grace before bringing it down in a final, controlled motion. A last pulse of energy radiated outward before she staggered slightly, breath uneven.

Still, she smiled. "It worked," she said softly, voice laced with exhaustion yet filled with pride.

Sigurd seized the moment to deliver the final words of his speech, rallying his soldiers once more before raising his arm and signaling the advance. "MEN ! MOVE OUT !!!"

The men broke into motion, ready to execute the plan.

Stepping ahead, I took command, issuing precise orders to each unit.

"Alec, your knights will form the front line, using their speed to intercept any fleeing soldiers and disrupt enemy ranks. You're the spearhead of this assault."

"Lex, your axe knights will secure the outer perimeter. Cut down any cultists resisting arrest, but focus on capturing the Verdane soldiers. They might be fighting against their will."

"Quan, take your lancers and charge through the castle's southern gate. Push through and meet us in the inner courtyard."

"Jamke, lead the archers to high ground. We'll need cover fire to suppress their movements."

The troops moved out in disciplined formation, riding toward the enemy stronghold. As they vanished into the dust of the battlefield, I remained behind with Sigurd, Deirdre, Edain and Oifey. A handful of soldiers lingered, keeping watch over the command post still filled with the wounded and convalescent.

I turned to Sigurd. "What are you going to do now?"

"I'll stay with Deirdre for a moment. She seems exhausted."

"I'm fine, Lord Sigurd," Deirdre protested softly.

Edain shook her head. "It's natural. This was probably your first time channeling such a powerful spell at a great distance. Your body simply isn't used to the strain. Rest, and you'll recover."

Sigurd nodded. "I'll catch up with the others later. Ray, go coordinate with Quan."

I met Deirdre's gaze, offering a small, concerned smile before resting a hand on Edain's shoulder in reassurance. Then, without another word, I activated my skill, feeling the wind wrap around me as I surged forward at unnatural speed, cutting across the battlefield.

_

The chaos of war unfolded before me.

Through the castle town, our forces moved with precision. Fighters clashed, steel against steel, but unlike past battles, our soldiers were not struggling. They were pushing forward, emboldened by the advantage we had seized. The absence of Sandima's magic had tipped the scales.

Still, not all had it easy. A knight staggered, barely dodging a downward strike from a Verdane warrior. A sharp gust of wind from my hand sent the enemy reeling, giving the knight the opening to strike back. Another soldier faltered, his shield barely holding against a relentless barrage—until a flick of my wrist sent a cutting arc through his foe's weapon, disarming them.

I pressed forward, past the advancing lines, until I reached the castle entrance. The aftermath of intense combat was evident. The gateway bore the scars of battle, and bodies—some unconscious, others permanently still—lay scattered across the stone floor. Blood mixed with dust, staining the battlefield with evidence of our struggle.

Inside the castle, the sounds of combat echoed through the halls. The air was thick with the scent of burning torches and sweat. Moving swiftly, I navigated the twisting corridors, cutting through pockets of resistance when necessary. Sandima's remaining loyalists fought with desperation, but their greatest weapon—Fenrir—had been stripped from them.

A skirmish raged in the grand hall. Our forces overwhelmed a group of cultists, the clash of weapons ringing off the stone walls. A swordsman lunged at me from the side, but a quick sidestep and a twist of my blade sent him sprawling, his weapon clattering across the floor.

Deeper within the castle, I encountered another wave of resistance. Sandima's most loyal followers had barricaded themselves inside a chamber, making their last stand. Their eyes burned with desperation, knowing this was their final hour.

I exhaled sharply, readying myself. The battle wasn't over yet.

And I intended to see it through to the end.

_

The battle felt like it had stretched on for an eternity — an endless storm of clashing steel and crackling magic. Even now, as the worst of the chaos began to fade, the air remained thick with the scent of blood and scorched spells.

The cries of the wounded still echoed through the stone corridors, and every so often, there was the sharp thud of a body hitting the cold floor. The castle itself bore the scars of our struggle — walls scorched and splintered, tapestries torn and hanging limp like defeated banners.

In one of the grand halls, now anything but grand, I stood alongside Quan and Oifey. The room was a wreck — shattered furniture lay scattered across the stone, and the heavy scent of charred wood mixed with the coppery tang of blood. At the center of it all, a table covered in maps and hastily drawn battle plans stood like a war altar, its papers smudged and torn from too many frantic hands.

Oifey, still catching his breath, straightened his posture before delivering his report. "We've secured nearly the entire castle, save for two rooms. One of them looks heavily guarded."

I met his gaze, then glanced at Quan. We both knew what that meant. "Let me guess," I said, my voice dry. "That's where Sandima's holed up?"

Oifey's face was grim as he nodded. "It's the only explanation. He's barricaded himself inside with his most loyal zealots keeping guard. They're not budging, and judging by their discipline, they're either terrified of him… or fanatical enough to die for him."

"Fanatics," Quan said, his voice like iron. He crossed his arms, his grip tightening on his lance. "Then that's where we strike. We can't afford to let this drag on."

Before I could respond, the chamber doors swung open. Sigurd strode in, Deirdre and Jamke close behind him. Even through his calm demeanor, I could see the signs of battle — the edges of his armor scorched, fresh dents along his greaves. But his back was straight, his steps steady, and his eyes sharp with purpose.

"It seems you've managed to seize control of the situation faster than I expected," Sigurd said, his voice carrying a genuine note of approval. "Well done, all of you. Now, let's end this here and now. A full frontal assault should suffice."

I exhaled sharply, already feeling a headache coming on. "With all due respect, Sigurd, that's reckless. Sandima may be cornered, but we have no idea what he'll pull when he sees no way out. We need a more calculated approach."

Sigurd raised an eyebrow, intrigued but not yet convinced. I didn't wait for him to ask — I was already moving.

"We divide our forces into three groups," I began. "Quan, you take your unit along with Ethlyn and Alec. That second room — we don't know what's behind it, but if my instincts are right, that's where King Batu is being held."

Across the room, Jamke went still. The tension in him was immediate — his fists clenching at his sides, his whole body taut and ready to object. But when I turned and met his eyes, he froze. I didn't say a word, but the message passed between us all the same. Please. Trust me.

The struggle played out on his face — anger, fear, doubt — before he swallowed hard and gave a slow, reluctant nod.

I turned back to the others. "Sigurd, take whatever forces you need and draw out Sandima's guards in front of the other room. Pull them away from the vicinity of the room and keep them occupied. Eliminate them if you have to, but your priority is keeping them off us."

Sigurd's gaze hardened, a glimmer of determination sparking in his eyes. "Understood."

"Oifey," I continued, "tell the remaining units to sweep the entire castle. I want every inch checked — documents, hidden compartments, rooms and cells, anything that might be of importance. If they find nothing, they're to extend the search to the castle town. We're not leaving until we're sure we've secured everything."

Quan adjusted his grip on his lance, still skeptical. "And you?"

I couldn't help the smirk that tugged at my lips as I rolled my shoulders. "Me?" My hand fell to the hilt of my sword, my fingers tightening around it. "I've got a bone to pick with that dark mage. And I believe Jamke does too."

Beside me, Jamke's face hardened, before relaxing into a pleased smile. His fingers curled around the string of his bow, and when he nodded, it was with the weight of quiet fury.

Quan's frown deepened. "So the two of you will be handling Sandima alone?"

Sigurd didn't bother hiding his concern. "Will you be enough?"

I let out a short, cocky laugh. "Please. The only reason he got me last time was because he had me outnumbered ten to one. This time, he's the one who's outnumbered."

Without another word, I turned and approached Deirdre, stopping just in front of her. My usual bravado softened — not gone, but tempered — as I met her eyes.

"Deirdre," I said quietly, "will you be kind enough to release the Silence spell on Sandima once Jamke and I are inside?"

The room tensed instantly.

Oifey stiffened. "Ray —"

"What?" Sigurd's brows furrowed deeply. "That's too dangerous."

"Are you out of your mind?" Quan's voice was sharp and disbelieving.

Even Deirdre hesitated, her violet eyes searching my face for an explanation.

But I didn't waver. "There's unfinished business between the three of us," I said, my voice steady. "We can't settle it if the bastard can't talk."

"This is reckless," Sigurd muttered, his jaw tight. "Even with Fenrir sealed, Sandima is still a threat, and you want her to undo the only chain keeping that thing sealed?"

"We'll deal with whatever he tries," I countered smoothly. "I won't let him cast Fenrir. I promise you that."

It was Jamke who broke the silence, his voice low and resolute. "I'll make sure of it too."

The room fell into a heavy silence, thick with tension and uncertainty. Finally, Sigurd exhaled through his nose, glancing around before nodding. "Fine. But don't take unnecessary risks."

Deirdre hesitated a moment longer before giving a reluctant nod. "I'll do it once you're inside."

I inclined my head slightly in thanks. The usual mirth in my grin was subdued, but the fire in my chest burned brighter than ever.

We were almost there. The battle wasn't over yet, but its final act was about to begin.

---

A new quest has been generated !

Title : Last time was a fluke. This time, I'm winning.

Type : Main Quest

Time-frame : Until Sandima is eliminated

Description : Fate has given you a second chance. The last time you faced Sandima, you were powerless, captured before you even had a chance to fight back. But now, things are different. Now, you're stronger. No more running, no more helplessness—this time, you're here to finish what was started.

The Dark Bishop of the Loptyrian cult still stands at the heart of Verdane Castle, manipulating the kingdom from the shadows. His magic is overwhelming, his power absolute, but none of that matters. Because this time, you're not just fighting to win. You're fighting for revenge.

Objective : Defeat Sandima and put an end to the Verdane campaign.

Rewards : 10 000 Gold Coins, 1 000 EXP, Increase standing within Grannvale and Verdane, Unique item drop (???).

Failure : You already know what happens if you lose. Capture. Torture. Death .And this time, no one is coming to save you.

Status: In progress…

---

The heavy wooden door loomed before us, a silent gatekeeper to the monster waiting beyond. The cold stone walls around us seemed to hum with the weight of what lay ahead, and every breath felt heavier. Every heartbeat thundered in my ears like a war drum.

"Ready for this, princeling?" I asked, keeping my voice light, even if my grip on my sword was anything but. I flashed a cocky grin, but I could feel the tension coiling in my muscles, my fingers flexing restlessly against the hilt. No point pretending I wasn't keyed up—Sandima had that effect on people.

Jamke's jaw tightened, his eyes hard as steel. "I've never been more ready in my life." His bow was already in hand, his fingers brushing the fletching of an arrow with the kind of ease that only came from years of practice. Despite his calm, there was fire in his voice.

"Good." Without another word, I lifted my leg and drove my boot into the door. The impact sent it flying inward with a resounding crash, the hinges groaning like they might tear free.

What lay beyond was a vision of pure nightmare.

Dust hung thick in the air, swirling through the dim light of guttering candles lining the stone walls. Strange symbols — drawn in what looked far too much like dried blood — twisted and spiraled across the floor and ceiling. The scent of decay was overwhelming, mingling with something sharper — burning herbs, incense, maybe something fouler. Tattered, dark curtains hung in shredded strips, half-obscuring twisted altars piled with arcane tools, bones arranged in grotesque patterns, and vials of thick, viscous fluids I didn't want to identify.

In the far corner, Sandima sat hunched over a table, his fingers trembling as he touched his throat, testing his voice with low, rasping murmurs.

"Looks like Deirdre lifted the spell," I murmured, feeling my pulse quicken.

I stepped forward slowly, my boots clicking against the stone. The sound seemed deafening in the oppressive quiet. "Sandima~," I called in a singsong voice, mocking despite the tension knotting my muscles. My stance stayed loose, ready.

The dark mage's head snapped up, his eyes burning with pure hatred. "You…"

"Happy to see me?" My smile sharpened, all teeth.

Sandima's lips curled into a sneer. "I suppose I am. I never quite managed to fulfill Lord Manfroy's orders last time. But I'll correct that today."

Behind me, Jamke stepped forward — solid, steady, and deadly. "Don't dismiss me so easily." The soft whisper of his bowstring tightening was a promise of violence.

Sandima's laughter slithered through the air. "You're too late, Jamke. Your father has already passed on."

"What?!" The words struck like a hammer blow. Jamke's breath hitched, and when he spoke, his voice was raw with fury. "Sandima! You… you're MINE!!"

"Kehehehe… You both will learn to fear my dark magic."

With a twisted incantation, the room erupted into chaos.

Shadow burst forth from Sandima's hands, a swarm of inky black serpents that slithered through the air, their eyes glowing with malevolent light. The temperature plummeted, frost crackling across the stone floor, and the walls seemed to close in, twisting and writhing like something alive.

"Here we go," I muttered, diving to the side as one of the shadow-serpents lunged at me. My blade flashed, batting it away with a hiss and a spray of black mist.

"Stay sharp!" Jamke called, his voice steady even as he loosed an arrow. It flew straight and true — only to be knocked aside by a wall of darkness.

Sandima cackled. "You cannot hope to match me!"

But we could damn well try.

We attacked in tandem. I closed the distance, slashing and parrying, my movements a blur of steel. Jamke provided covering fire, his arrows striking with pinpoint accuracy even when the shadows swatted them aside.

"So, Sandima," I called between strikes, breathless but defiant, "what's the evil plan today? Kidnap? Sacrifice? General world-ending nonsense?"

"You will not mock the dark arts!" Sandima's fury erupted in a wave of black flame.

I twisted away, feeling the heat sear the edges of my cloak. "Then stop making it so easy!"

"You will regret your words, fool!"

"I regret many things, Sandima. Talking to you is just the latest."

The fight raged on, and still, neither side gained the upper hand. Sandima's magic was relentless, the room itself twisting in his favor. But we held our ground. My sword cut through the unnatural dark, and Jamke's arrows found every opening.

And then Sandima played his dirtiest card.

"Still so confident, Ray? What about your little friend, Dave, was it ?" His voice was poison, and his smile widened as my steps faltered for just a heartbeat. "You remember him, don't you? How you ran like a coward, leaving him behind? What do you think happened to him after you escaped?"

My grip on my sword tightened until my knuckles went white. Fury boiled up, hot and blinding. "Shut. Your. Mouth."

"Oh, I doubt he fared well," Sandima continued, his words dripping with cruel glee. "But maybe he still lives. A pity you'll never know."

I surged forward, my sword a whirlwind of steel, my control slipping dangerously. Only Jamke's steady voice pulled me back from the edge.

"Ray! Focus! Don't let him get to you!"

I forced myself to breathe, stepping back with an effort that felt like tearing myself in two. My eyes stayed locked on Sandima, but the laughter in his eyes said he knew he'd found a wound.

"I was surprised when my voice returned," Sandima taunted. "I thought my end had come. I see you've allied yourself with the cursed maiden. The priestess of the spirit forest… Deirdre."

I didn't answer. I attacked.

Sandima was ready. The air split with his incantation, and darkness surged like a living thing. Jormungand lashed out — not just one serpent, but a swarm, their hiss rising into a cacophony as they lunged for me from all sides. I spun, my sword a blur as I batted them away, slicing through their inky forms only for more to take their place. The floor rippled, shadowy tendrils erupting beneath my feet — I barely leaped aside in time, feeling the cold bite of dark magic graze my ankle.

"Ray!" Jamke's warning was sharp, followed by the twang of his bow. An arrow streaked past me, striking one of the shadow serpents mid-lunge and pinning it to the wall — where it writhed and dissolved into black mist.

But Sandima wasn't done. The twisted altars lining the room flared with sickly green light, and the symbols on the floor pulsed in time with his magic. "You should've stayed in hiding after running from here," he hissed, his hands weaving another spell. "But now you'll drown in despair!"

The next wave came fast. A storm of black flame surged toward me, heat and cold clashing in a sickening rush. I dove through it, feeling my cloak scorch and the edges of my vision blur from the force of the spell. Still, I pressed forward — only to be met by a wall of shadows, thick and heavy, forcing me back step by step.

"Running again?" Sandima mocked. "Just like before?"

I gritted my teeth and slashed upward — and the wall burst apart. "You talk too much," I growled, darting forward — but a tendril of darkness wrapped around my wrist, yanking me sideways. I hit the stone hard, the impact rattling my teeth.

Before I could rise, Sandima's next attack was already falling — a spear of pure shadow.

Jamke's arrows intercepted it mid-flight, shattering the spell with a crack like thunder. "You keep forgetting I'm here, Sandima!" Jamke shouted, loosing another shot. It forced the dark mage to dodge, his sneer slipping as he twisted away from the projectile.

"Fools!" Sandima spat, and the entire room seemed to darken. The air grew heavier, the low hum rising into a deafening drone. "You dare challenge me, a servant of Lop—"

"Oh great, another cultist with a superiority complex," I cut in, rolling my eyes even as I slashed through another wave of shadows. "Just once, I want an evil dude who's like, 'Yeah, I suck, my bad.'"

Jamke snorted, despite the danger. "Don't hold your breath."

Sandima's eyes blazed with fury. "You dare mock—"

"Yes," I interrupted again, my sword flashing as I knocked aside another shadow serpent. "Yes, I do. You're being redundant, and, despite repeating myself, you're making this way too easy."

The dark mage's face twisted with rage, and the entire room seemed to shudder in response. Shadows gathered above him, coalescing into a massive, twisting form — a serpent of pure darkness, its eyes burning crimson. It struck down with terrifying speed.

I rolled aside, coming up in a crouch. "Jamke! Keep him distracted!"

Jamke's response was wordless — the whistle of another arrow. It grazed Sandima's shoulder, and the dark mage snarled in pain and rage.

I took my chance. Moving low and fast, I skirted the edge of the room, dodging grasping tendrils and slashing away shadow serpents. My heart pounded, sweat slicking my grip on my sword — but my mind stayed clear.

In perfect sync, I drove Sandima back with a relentless assault. Every swing of my sword forced him further into a corner. And when the moment came, Jamke was ready.

"Retribution for my father… AND FOR VERDANE!" Jamke's shout rang through the chamber as his arrow flew true the shadows, aiming for Sandima.

It struck true.

Sandima crumpled, his voice reduced to a broken whisper. "Archbishop Manfroy… f-forgive me…"

And then there was silence.

Jamke stood over the body for only a moment. "I have to find my father," he said, his voice tight and controlled, but the pain underneath was unmistakable.

I nodded. "Go."

As Jamke left, I turned to the corpse. Whatever sentiment I might have felt was burned away by practicality. My hands moved swiftly and methodically, rifling through Sandima's possessions and adding the Fenrir and Jormungand tomes, a magic ring, and a pouch of gold to my inventory.

I paused at the door, glancing back at the still form lying crumpled on the stone floor.

"Let's hope you were lying," I murmured. Then I stepped out, leaving the nightmare behind and heading back into the light.

---

Quest Completed !

Title : Last time was a fluke. This time, I won.

Type : Main Quest

Time-frame : Until Sandima is eliminated

Description : It's over.

Sandima—the mastermind behind Verdane's corruption, the one who humiliated you, who made you feel powerless—is dead. His magic, his schemes, his very existence—erased. The battlefield is yours.

The shadows that once gripped Verdane have been banished, and with them, the last remnants of Lopytrian influence in this war. Sigurd has secured victory, and with it, a fragile peace—one that "may" not have been possible without you.

Rewards : 10 000 Gold Coins, 1 000 EXP, Increase standing within Verdane, Jormungand, Fenrir, Magic Ring.

Status: Success.

---

Jamke's voice shattered the silence of the corridors, frantic, trembling with raw desperation. "Dad? DAAADDD!?"

The sound of his anguish hit me like a physical blow. I felt my heart lurch, quickening its rhythm as I bolted forward, urgency flooding every muscle. My feet pounded against the stone, the walls blurring around me as I raced toward the chamber, each step heavier than the last.

When I reached the room, the sight before me made me halt. The chamber, once regal and imposing, had been reduced to a place of sorrow. Ornate carvings lined the edges of the walls, but the grandeur was overshadowed by the suffocating atmosphere of sickness and despair. The air was thick with the scent of incense, barely masking the acrid stench of death. The flickering candlelight cast long, twisted shadows, making everything seem more fragile—more haunted.

Jamke knelt by the massive bed, his hands gripping the frail, withered fingers of the man lying there—King Batu of Verdane. The old king's skin had a sickly, waxen pallor, his breath coming in shallow, labored gasps. His eyes fluttered open, but the light in them was already fading.

'So that's his father…' I thought grimly, my chest tightening at the heart-wrenching scene.

For all the battles I'd seen, there was something far more devastating about this—watching a son see his father slip away.

"Forgive me, Jamke… You were right… I was a fool… tricked by Sandima…" Batu's voice was thin and broken, each word an effort. "He used his dark magic… put me in this sorry state… I probably don't have… much longer…"

"No…!" Jamke's voice cracked, his knuckles turning white as he clutched his father's hand tighter. "Please, don't say that!"

Sigurd stepped forward, his usual calm shattered by urgency. "King Batu! Please, you must hold on! Verdane needs you! Without you, what will become of your people?"

Batu's faded eyes flickered toward Sigurd. "Lord… Sigurd? I am… so sorry… for all of this… I let Sandima… lead me astray… He abused my trust… and won over my sons… all to seize control of Verdane… The attack on Grannvale…"

Sigurd knelt by the bed, his face softening despite the urgency that had filled his voice earlier. "I understand, Your Highness. But please, you mustn't strain yourself. Save your strength."

"No… I fear… I have no strength left…" Batu's breathing grew more labored, his eyes glazing with urgency. "Heed my words… Sigurd… The misery here… the grief spreading across Jugdral… It is the will of the dark priesthood… They blight our world from the shadows… for the revival of their dark god… Loptous… Sandima… was one of them… They twisted us… into war with Grannvale… for their madness… They… infect every corner… of our world… Sigurd… stay vigilant… lest you be deceived too… I failed my people… Jamke… my son… Make this right… Protect… our people…"

"Dad, please—" Jamke's voice broke, raw and pleading, as the old king's hand slipped from his grip. The room fell into a suffocating silence.

"No!" Jamke stumbled to his feet, his face a mask of pain and disbelief, his hands desperately reaching for the lifeless form of his father. "No, no, no!" The words tumbled out in a ragged, broken stream. He fled the room then, the sound of his footsteps echoing down the corridor, harsh and filled with the weight of his grief.

I watched him go, helplessness gnawing at my gut like a festering wound. Edain and Ethlyn moved to Batu's side, but even they knew it was too late. The king was already gone, his body still in the wake of his final breath.

'Maybe if I'd been faster…' The bitter thought gnawed at me, but there was no point dwelling on regrets. Not now.

Sigurd stood frozen, his face pale and stricken. "The dark priesthood…? What in the blazes is happening…?"

I stepped forward, my voice low and serious. "Sigurd… have you ever encountered them before?"

"No," he admitted, his hands balling into fists at his sides. "But this… Manipulating kings, killing innocent people, inflicting pain and suffering without remorse… And their god approves of this?!" His voice rose, cracking with fury. "Don't make me laugh!"

It was a side of Sigurd I'd never seen before—his composure broken, his calm replaced with burning anger. Hatred flashed in his eyes, his usual reason lost to the weight of his rage.

"Even if their god may approve of their actions… I will never approve of them," he spat, his voice shaking.

His words struck something deep within me, and I felt my own fury stir. "They're worse than you know," I said quietly, my throat tightening. The memories rose, unbidden and unwanted. "I've… crossed paths with them before. And nothing good ever comes from it."

Sigurd's head snapped toward me, his eyes sharp and questioning. "What do you mean? What happened?"

I shook my head. "It's not something to talk about right now. But I will say this—if they're making their move now, it's only going to get worse from here. We need to be ready."

Sigurd's expression softened, the fire in his eyes tempered by determination. "We will be. Whatever comes, we'll face it together."

I nodded, but the dread curling in my stomach refused to fade. The dark sect's shadow was growing—and we were only beginning to see its reach. And for all our resolve, I feared it wouldn't be enough. The storm was just beginning, and we were already running out of time.

---

{ Preview }

Next time in Fire Emblem : The Holy War…

The chapel was a vision of elegance, a masterpiece of noble craftsmanship. Sunlight poured through the stained glass windows, painting the marble floor with shimmering colors. The air was thick with the scent of fresh flowers, and the faint notes of a harp echoed through the hall. Every detail, from the golden embroidery on the altar cloth to the placement of the ceremonial candles, had been arranged with meticulous care.

Truly, it was a sight worthy of legend.

So why did Sigurd look like he was walking to his own execution?

"Alright," he exhaled, pacing near the entrance, "just breathe. It's just a wedding. Nothing to panic about. No armies. No battles. Just standing there. Saying vows. Simple."

"You say that," Alec muttered, arms crossed, "but I've never seen you this stressed charging into enemy territory."

"That's because charging into enemy territory doesn't require me to make an eternal commitment in front of half the nobility of Grannvale!" Sigurd snapped, pulling at his collar for the hundredth time.

"One quarter at best." I muttered, not that it seemed to matter to him.

Naoise sighed. "You proposed, my lord. This is entirely your own doing."

"That's what makes it worse!" Sigurd groaned, running a hand down his face.

"I'm starting to think you didn't think this through," I commented, leaning against a pillar.

"Oh, don't encourage him," Ethlyn scolded, adjusting Deirdre's veil in her hand. "This is supposed to be the happiest day of his life!"

"Yeah, Sigurd," Quan added, grinning as he clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Cheer up. If you start shaking now, what's gonna happen when the real stress begins?"

Sigurd frowned. "What real stress?"

Quan smirked. "Marriage."

Sigurd's eye twitched.

I turned to Ethlyn. "Your husband is a menace."

"I know," she said flatly.

Meanwhile, Midir stood nearby, hands clasped together, nodding sagely. "Marriage is a sacred bond, a promise of unwavering devotion. Lord Sigurd, you must stand firm and embrace this moment with honor."

Alec snorted. "You're just saying that because you're hoping for yours to happen next."

Midir went bright red. "I—I have no idea what you mean!"

"Oh, I think you do," Quan teased. "Say, Edain, what do you think?"

Edain, who had been quietly supervising the final touches of the ceremony, turned with the perfect grace of a noblewoman. "I think," she said gently, "that teasing someone about matters of the heart is rather unkind."

Midir's face burned even redder, but Alec and Quan just grinned.

Meanwhile, Arden watched the whole ordeal with a blank expression. "Huh. And here I thought noble weddings were supposed to be dignified."

I smirked. "You'd think that, wouldn't you?"

Sigurd groaned, rubbing his temples. "Can everyone please take this seriously?"

"Of course, of course," I said, nodding solemnly. "It's a very serious occasion. The last few minutes of your life as a free man. We should respect that."

Quan wiped an imaginary tear. "Poor guy. We lost him too soon."

"You two are the worst," Sigurd muttered.

"And yet," I pointed out, "you still let us be here."

Before Sigurd could argue, the chapel doors creaked open. Silence fell.

And then, there she was—

Deirdre stepped forward, radiant in a gown of white and gold, her silver hair framing her delicate features like a vision from a dream. She moved with quiet grace, her gaze finding Sigurd's instantly.

Sigurd, the same man who had just been on the verge of a meltdown, suddenly straightened, his breath hitching slightly.

The room faded away. The nerves, the teasing, the weight of expectations—all of it disappeared in an instant.

For Sigurd, there was only her.

I smirked. "Welp. There he goes."

Quan folded his arms. "That's the face of a man who's doomed."

Naoise sighed, shaking his head. "That's the face of a man in love."

Alec hummed. "Pretty much the same thing."

Ethlyn elbowed me as the ceremony began. "Try not to make any more jokes while they're saying their vows, alright?"

I grinned. "No promises."

{ End Point }

---

The part about Ethlyn mentioning the Mariana trench is from the manga. I checked and it is from earth, although I don't see any mention of it anywhere in the FE lore, hence Ray's reaction. For those who don't know, the Mariana Trench is the deepest part of the ocean, a crescent-shaped trench in the western Pacific Ocean.

The scene where Edain stands in a downpour of arrows is from the Manga. And, if my sources are correct, it is said that Ullr the bow crusader did something similar in the past. Ullir luck isn't just for show people, and be prepared to see more of this when Brigid inevitably joins.

So, that's about it for this chapter, and with it the first chapter of the game too. Verdane has been saved from the dark cult clutches, although the royal family has been almost completely eliminated. Thankfully, Jamke was saved, and will be with us for a long time… No spoilers.

There should be an interlude or two before the start of the Agustrian campaign, so I hope you're not too eager to read it. I will try my best to have them ready as soon as possible though.

And with that, I hope you have a very good day until next time!