He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, gaze unfocused, as if looking not at the study’s walls but far beyond them.
“It was said he reached the ninety-fifth threshold in his prime. A warrior of iron will, yet guided by restraint. I saw him once in Ansem, when he still advised the late King. I was little more than a squire then. Donato had already become the Kingdom’s bulwark.”
He exhaled slowly. “To lose such a servant… it is no small thing. He was our greatest defender after Lirian’s debacle. His death will summon the wolves once more.”
The room remained silent for a moment.
“What unsettles me,” Oliverio continued, “is not the loss alone—but the speed of what followed. Templo’s choice of successor is… decisive. For better or worse.”
He turned slightly toward his daughter.
“She is worthy. Of that, I have no doubt. But the murmurs will not be kind.”
Serena crossed her arms, expression composed. “Let them murmur. Templo’s decision stands, and the Vicar has made his will clear, and his will is Mainal’s own. The Cardinals resisted, but only briefly.”
A pause.
“Whatever comes of it, we will adapt. What concerns me more is what unfolds here.”
She looked toward the Governor.
“I’ve ordered the Mint to halt outgoing caravans for three days. It was… difficult.” Her lips tightened. “The merchants are furious. And Salinas will use every complaint as a blade against us. Father, is there any chance they could be involved in this disaster?”
Oliverio nodded once. “Rodolfo has always preferred poison to steel,” he said. “But even he would not dare involve himself in the abduction of children. Such a crime, once proven, would draw the Royal Family’s gaze. No house survives that.”
He turned to the Governor.
“Saras. You will give my daughter whatever she requires.”
Saras De Vainilla straightened immediately.
“Of course, Patriarch. Young—Serena.” He corrected himself with a faint smile. “Name it, and it will be done.”
Serena returned the smile, briefly. “Thank you, Uncle Saras. I’ll need every report: locations, witnesses, patrol movements. Impose a citywide curfew. Children are not to leave their homes unless accompanied. Double the street guard.”
She hesitated, then added, more softly, “If necessary, I will invoke the Army’s Sigil and compel the noble houses to contribute manpower. I would prefer not to.”
All three understood the implication.
Such a measure would solve the crisis… And create another.
When the discussion ended, Serena stepped out onto the balcony.
Siracusa stretched below her, rooftops and lanterns forming a familiar constellation. This city had once been her playground, her refuge, her training ground. Now it lay tense and silent, as if holding its breath.
She clenched her fists.
Somewhere within those streets, children were being held. Broken. Waiting.
She had asked for this command. Insisted upon it. And she knew that every order she gave, every failure or success, was being weighed by unseen eyes.
She would not fail.
Not the city.
Not her House.
Not herself.
The County of Siracusa was a generous land.
Rolling fields stretched beneath a wide sky, stitched together by groves of old trees and winding streams that glittered under the sun. Beyond them, mountains rose like patient sentinels, their slopes veiled in green. The soil was dark and rich, the air clean and fragrant with grass, water, and distant pine.
It was a land that fed many mouths.
And enriched very few.
“I really don’t see why they’d be angry,” a girl said lightly, her voice lilting as she skipped through the tall grass. “I only stepped out for a little while.”
She moved without care, barefoot, her steps barely bending the blades beneath her feet. She looked no older than ten, perhaps eleven, but there was something about her presence that felt… unanchored. As if the land itself had not quite decided how to receive her.
Her beauty was striking. Not loud, not sharp—but in a subtle way. Too precise. Too balanced.
Long black hair spilt freely down her back, catching the light like silk. Her features bore the faint echo of elven blood—slender ears, fine cheekbones, eyes too deep for their size. Her skin was darker than most in these lands, warm and smooth, setting her apart without diminishing her allure.
She wore a dress woven from living leaves and fine silk, greens and pale gold shifting as she walked. No shoes. No pack. No weapon.
At her side fluttered a small bird, no larger than her hand, its feathers a vivid emerald that shimmered like polished jade. It circled her head in playful arcs, chirping rapidly.
She tilted her head, listening.
“Oh, don’t give me that look,” she said, placing her hands on her hips. “You know how long they’ve kept me cooped up. And it’s not like I caused any disasters this time.”
She huffed. “That one doesn’t count.”
The bird chirped again, sharper this time.
“Yes, yes. I know what Master said,” she replied, rolling her eyes. “Something about ‘appearances’ and ‘unnecessary attention’ and ‘calamities starting with curiosity.’ Honestly, I don’t see how someone looking at me could think of disaster.”
She paused, then frowned thoughtfully.
“…Well. Maybe once or twice.”
The bird fluttered down, landing on her shoulder.
She sighed. “Fine. Fine. I’ll change.”
With a casual wave of her hand, something shimmered into existence between her fingers—a translucent mask, thin as cicada wings, faintly iridescent. She pressed it gently against her face.
The change was immediate.
Her striking features softened. Her nose rounded slightly, lips thinning, eyes losing their depth and brilliance. Her presence dimmed—not vanishing, but receding. She was still cute, still pleasant… but unremarkable.
The sort of face one would struggle to recall moments later.
She blinked, testing it.
“See? Much better,” she said brightly. “I borrowed this from the old man anyway.”
“He won’t mind,” she added quickly. “He’s the one who told me to stop standing out. And I can’t change myself properly yet, so what choice did I have?”
The bird seemed unconvinced.
She grinned. “Relax. What’s the worst that could happen?”
She turned in a slow circle, eyes widening as the distant landscape came into view.
“Oh,” she breathed. “So this is Ansara.”
Far ahead, white stone walls rose from the plains, tall and proud, catching the sun like a crown. Towers pierced the skyline, banners fluttering faintly in the distance. The city looked nothing like the places she knew—structured, heavy, imposing in a way that spoke of order rather than harmony.
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“It’s… different,” she murmured. “Not ugly. Just… loud.”
The bird chirped softly.
“I know, right? Majestic in a very way.”
She took a few steps forward—then stopped.
Her head tilted sharply.
“…Hmm?”
Ahead, near a copse of trees, movement caught her eye.
Men.
Several of them.
They were dragging children.
Small figures, bound and frightened, muffled cries swallowed by rough hands. The men moved quickly, glancing around, practiced and efficient.
The girl’s smile faded.
She stared, very still.
“…Little Green,” she said quietly, “what do you suppose they’re doing?”
The bird’s feathers bristled.
The wind shifted.
And for the first time since she’d stepped into Ansara, the land around her seemed to .
The ruins lay less than a day’s ride from Siracusa.
They were old—not merely abandoned, but , the kind of place history preferred not to acknowledge. Broken stone half-swallowed by earth, pillars snapped and eroded into jagged teeth, walls etched with symbols that no one remembered how to read. Moss clung to everything, thick and damp, carrying the scent of rot and rain.
Once, long before Ansara had a name, men had prayed here.
Not to AEON.
In those days, the land had been divided into feuding duchies and warbands, each clutching its own god, demon, or promise of salvation. Blood had flowed freely then, offered in exchange for power. When the Templo rose, such faiths were branded heretical and erased with methodical zeal. Their temples were burned, their followers executed, their names struck from memory.
These ruins remained only as a warning.
And warnings, like scars, had a way of being reopened.
Night pressed heavily upon the stones.
Five figures stood within the heart of the ruin, clad in layered black cloth that swallowed the moonlight. They had drawn a circle upon the ground—interlocking runes etched in ash, blood, and powdered bone. The symbols twisted upon themselves, resisting the eye, as if they disliked being observed for too long.
The air was wrong.
Cold, despite the season. Heavy, as if something unseen pressed down upon the space. Mana stirred in uneven pulses, like a wounded heart struggling to beat.
Embedded in the far wall was a sword.
Its blade was broken, rusted, and ancient—nailed into the stone as if in mockery. Once, it had been an object of reverence. Now it served only as a relic of a failed faith.
The men began to move.
Their hands traced deliberate signs, slow and precise. With each gesture, the runes flickered faintly, red light blooming and fading like dying embers.
At last, one of them spoke.
His voice scraped against the silence, hoarse and uneven, as if unused—or damaged.
“Are the materials sufficient?”
“Barely,” another answered, tone low. “We’ve secured several already, but they responded faster than expected. Patrols are increasing. Eyes everywhere.” He hesitated. “If we want more, we’ll have to take them from the roads. Families. People who won’t be missed quickly.”
The first man clicked his tongue softly.
“That is… undesirable.”
He stepped closer to the circle’s centre. The light reflected faintly off his maskless face—sharp features, eyes too calm.
“We are already pushing the limits. The longer this drags on, the higher the chance of error. We do not need abundance. Only .”
A third voice cut in. “Serena De Vainilla has arrived.”
The name settled heavily between them.
“She’s taken command. Army authority. Discipline.” The man hesitated. “She’s dangerous.”
Silence followed.
Then the leader laughed—quietly, without humor.
“Dangerous,” he echoed. “Or useful.”
The smallest of the five shifted uneasily. “If we move against her directly, there will be consequences. She’s Royal Army. Even with… support, this could escalate.”
The leader turned his head slightly.
“It already has.”
He spread his hands.
“We have allies in places you would not expect. Noble houses. Officers. Men who understand that Balance requires sacrifice.” His voice hardened. “If the Vainilla fall because their golden daughter fails… all the better. Two outcomes. One ritual.”
The fifth man, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke.
“Then we move quickly,” he said. “Finish the preparations. Increase pressure in the city. Fear will do the rest.”
A thin smile crept across his face.
“After this… we won’t have to worry again.”
The five men extended their hands toward the centre of the circle.
The runes flared.
For a heartbeat, crimson light surged upward, distorting the air, bending shadow and stone alike.
Something .
Then the light vanished. The ruins fell silent once more. Only the broken sword remained—watching.
Night draped itself over the world like velvet, the stars scattered across it like ancient lamps filled with quiet magic. Nerion had always cherished such nights, when the sky felt close enough to listen, and the weight in his chest eased.
Nerion lay on his back in the grass beyond Siracusa’s walls, hands folded behind his head, one knee bent. The city’s glow lingered faintly behind him, lanterns and watchfires blurring into a distant smear of gold. Out here, the air smelled of earth and leaves, cool and honest.
Leo lay beside him, curled close, silver-blue fur rising and falling with slow breaths.
Nerion liked nights like this.
No walls. No eyes. No expectations.
He watched the stars for a long while before speaking, his voice barely louder than the wind.
“Sadness envelops me under the moonlight,
yet my soul wanders, my soul hungers—
for you I never met,
for you I miss the most.”
Leo’s ear twitched.
Nerion smiled faintly. “Still bad, huh?”
The wolf cracked one eye open and released a low, unimpressed huff.
“I know, I know,” Nerion said. “Poetry isn’t exactly your thing.”
He had stumbled on poetry through Myra’s suitor’s letters — flowery, laughable at first.
But the rhythm, the way words captured ache… it spoke to him.
He’d never shared his verses with anyone. Not Myra. Not Silvestre. Not even Elisha. They were his way of bleeding thoughts without letting them fester. When he spoke them aloud, the ache in his chest always dulled, just a little.
He fell silent again.
Six years.
Six years of training, of pain, of patience. And still—
He flexed his fingers, watching faint threads of Qi ripple beneath his skin, Mana humming just beneath that, close but not touching. Like two rivers running side by side, never merging.
“I should be stronger,” he admitted quietly.
Leo lifted his head this time, ears angling toward him.
“I know I’m not weak,” Nerion continued. “But I’m… shallow. That’s what it feels like.” He frowned. “Everyone else stacks power. Levels. Layers. I split myself in half and try to make it work.”
He rolled onto his side, facing the wolf.
“I’m a Grandmaster and a Great-Adept. On paper.” A snort. “In reality, I’m neither. Not fully.”
Leo let out a soft growl, almost questioning.
“I spent years reshaping the Free Flowing Fist,” Nerion went on. “Not learning it. it.” His eyes drifted shut as memories surfaced—bruised knuckles, torn muscles, nights collapsing from exhaustion. “The First Form took six months. The Second… a year and a half. The Third—” He laughed quietly. “Four years. Four.”
Leo’s tail flicked.
“And it works,” Nerion said. “By AEON, it really works. Against anyone my level… I don’t lose.” His brow furrowed. “But when I need to move fast? When I need to break distance?”
His jaw tightened.
“Flash Walk doesn’t belong to me anymore.”
The words tasted bitter.
“It’s pure Qi,” he said. “Explosive. Linear. It was perfect for Elisha and for Pops. But for me?” He shook his head. “It fights against everything I am.”
He pushed himself up to sit, arms resting on his knees.
“I need something else,” he whispered. “Something that moves like water, not lightning. Something that belongs to me”
Leo snorted softly.
Nerion chuckled. “Easy for you. You just run.”
The moment stretched. Whatever that movement was… he hadn’t found it yet.
Then—
A scream cut through the night.
Nerion froze.
Another scream followed—higher. Panicked. Children.
He was already on his feet.
They moved silently through the grass, keeping low as the terrain dipped toward a shallow field bordered by broken stone and scrub. What greeted them made Nerion’s eyes narrow.
Several children were bound, huddled together in terror.
Around them stood armed men—too many.
And standing between these two disparate groups.
A girl. Petite, barefoot, dark-haired, and… defiant.
A flash of emerald streaked through the air. Not even Nerion managed to follow it fully.
A bird—no, —darted past a man’s face, tearing a bloody line across his cheek. He screamed, clutching at his eye.
“Catch the girl!” one of them shouted. “That beast’s hers!”
Nerion felt it then.
He recognised them instantly. Their stances. Their voices.
The same greedy wolves that tried to kidnap Joel’s children.
“Boss, that’s him!” one of the bandits shrieked, pointing at Nerion. “The pretty boy from the road!”
The leader, a massive, bearded man named Leto,
Nerion smiled.
“Oh, good,” he said pleasantly. “I was worried my fishing was too subtle. Come then, little fishes. There is some gold to be made.”
Two men broke away and rushed Nerion. One a Master, the other a Grandmaster. Barely enough to relieve boredom.
The teen stepped forward, body turning sideways, hands lifting in a slow, almost lazy motion.
The Second Form flowed. Nerion liked it a lot. He called the stance:
Their strikes met solid—only redirection, soft pressure, borrowed force. Each attack bled into the next, their momentum stolen, their balance eroded.
Nerion’s palms brushed wrists. Elbows nudged shoulders. A finger tapped a point beneath a rib.
He didn't block; he . Every punch they threw was redirected into the earth or back into their own joints. With every contact, Nerion’s mixed energy—a jagged, stinging blend of Mana and Qi—seeped into their meridians, clogging their flow like silt in a river.
Panic crept into their eyes as they realised their strength wasn’t gone—it was as if they were in a quagmire, their limbs growing heavy. One lost focus.
Nerion, never one to lose such a chance, seized his face and slammed him into the ground.
The other tried to retreat. But it was too late.
Nerion appeared behind him and drove an elbow into his spine.
The man collapsed.
The field went still.
The girl stared.
“Hey, you there, brat!” the girl shouted, pouting even as she commanded her bird to dive-bomb the leader. “Stop playing with your food and help us!”
Nerion winced.
Then laughed. “Yes, Ma’am. Leo,” he said calmly. “Show them what you’re made of”
A blur erupted from the shadows.
Leo, still in his "shrunk" hound form, didn't look threatening—until he hit a man, the one they called Number 2.
CRASH!
Because Leo had maintained the full mass of a Rank 3 beast, the collision was like being struck by a runaway carriage. The bandit was sent flying thirty meters, his ribs shattering instantly.
The girl’s eyes went wide. “A Silverback Wolf? No… that’s a Blizzard Direwolf
The leader, Leto, realised the tide had turned. He turned to flee, but Nerion raised his left hand.
“Χ?ρι Φωτι?? (Chéri fotiás - Fire Hand)!”
Fire bloomed.
BOOM!
The explosion scorched the earth where he had stood a heartbeat earlier.
Nerion’s left hand glowed faintly, four small flames dancing above his fingers.
He exhaled.
“Right,” he muttered. “Still not enough.”
And stepped forward.