“Excuse me?”
Leni looked up at him with moist eyes.
Even though Blayden knew it was an act to get what she wanted, he asked, “Is there something you wish for?”
“Excuse me?”
“If you were free, I mean. What would you want to do with your life?”
“I want to travel all over the world. I want to hear many stories and create even more.”
Blayden thought of the bird in the Foret Forest.
A small, lovely life that he ultimately couldn’t protect.
Its delicate song, once a source of comfort, had become a haunting melody in his memories.
He remembered the swift, brutal end of that fleeting beauty, a wound that still festered in his heart.
“Stories, you say? What are you talking about? And ‘do what’? Of course, I’ll make people laugh and cry.”
Its song was beautiful, just like your voice now.
The resemblance sent a shiver down his spine.
He remembered the captivating allure of that bird, the way its vibrant plumage had shimmered in the sunlight, drawing him closer.
And then, the sudden, violent silence.
That beauty eventually became a dagger that pierced his heart. Are you saying you’d do such a thing too?
That’s why you’re a kid.
Don’t carelessly try to meddle with people’s hearts.
You play with emotions as if they’re toys, unaware of the profound damage you could inflict.
Not when you can’t even handle the consequences.
You speak of making people laugh and cry as if it’s a simple performance, a mere turn of phrase.
But the weight of such an act, the lasting impact, is something you cannot yet comprehend.
His gaze fell on Leni’s lips, the soft curve of them, and a sudden, sharp ache resonated in his chest.
His heart, already burdened by unspoken grief, seemed to constrict, and Blayden winced. Leni’s eyes quickly turned red, the moisture intensifying, a carefully constructed façade of wounded innocence.
“You shouldn’t mock someone’s dream.”
Her voice, though feigned, carried a surprising tremor, adding to the illusion.
Why did he feel sorry for mocking her?
Why did he have to care about this kid’s feelings?
He, who had vowed to harden his heart against such trivialities, found himself inexplicably drawn into her emotional orbit.
Should he even try to soothe her with sweet lies, to offer platitudes that would only further entangle them?
His heart, which seemed to have been broken since dawn, a raw, exposed nerve, was perplexed by this unexpected surge of empathy.
Blayden grumbled, the words rough and unyielding, a futile attempt to regain his composure.
“Stories or not, for now, become a diligent slave.”
The harshness of his tone was meant to create distance, to reassert his authority, but even as he spoke, he felt a strange reluctance.
“If I’m diligent, will you promise me? That you’ll release me if I prove my usefulness three times?”
Her voice, now laced with a hopeful urgency, cut through his internal turmoil.
Her eyes, still glistening, held a spark of defiant ambition.
“Alright.”
The word escaped him, almost against his will.
He became afraid of how his heart would flow if this conversation dragged on, of the unpredictable currents that Leni’s presence seemed to stir within him.
He was a man of order, of control, and this young girl, with her audacious dreams and manipulative charm, threatened to unravel everything he held sacred.
“Oh!”
Leni’s eyes widened, a genuine flicker of surprise replacing the feigned sorrow.
She jumped up, a sudden burst of energy, her previous distress forgotten.
Had she not expected him to agree?
She clapped her hands together, a bright, childish sound, beaming as if she’d found an unexpected windfall, a hidden treasure.
The joy on her face was infectious, momentarily dispelling his grim mood.
“I proved it once this morning.”
Her voice was triumphant, brimming with self-satisfaction.
“What?”
Blayden’s brow furrowed, a flicker of confusion crossing his features.
He hadn’t recalled any such arrangement.
“When I blocked the arrow with an apple and dealt with the assassin with a dagger. You said I was quite useful then, didn’t you? Now only two times are left.”
To count even what happened before the deal, her calculations were arbitrary, a clever manipulation of the terms he had so carelessly offered.
She was quick, he had to admit, almost unnervingly so.
“You must keep your promise.”
Her voice, though still light, held a note of steel, a clear warning that she would not let him renege.
Watching Leni’s eyes sparkle as she raised the end of her sentence, a mixture of amusement and a strange melancholy washed over Blayden.
He’d said it to make the kid happy, a fleeting impulse of generosity, but seeing her bright smile made him feel rather choked up, a complex knot of emotions tightening in his chest.
He was accustomed to commanding fear and respect, not this unsettling tenderness.
“The trouble I’ll cause in the future might be more serious than killing someone. Because I’m exceptionally capable.”
Her words were a veiled threat, delivered with an innocent smile, hinting at a mischievous streak that could prove far more challenging than any physical confrontation.
She was a force to be reckoned with, he realized, a whirlwind of unpredictable energy.
“What are you trying to say?”
Blayden asked, a hint of exasperation in his voice.
“No matter what happens, you don’t need to look after me like you did this morning. I’ll decline your kindness. I’ll protect myself. With this amazing weapon you just bestowed upon me.”
Leni, who had spoken primly, her posture straight and proud, bowed gracefully, a theatrical flourish, and then turned away.
Her red cloak swirled around her as she walked, a vibrant splash of color against the muted backdrop of the world.
Was this her revenge for not allowing her a weapon?
Blayden scratched his chin, a faint smile playing on his lips as he watched her red hair sway in the wind.
She was an enigma, this child, a constant source of surprise and irritation.
Who was kind first?
Why did you look after me and smile arbitrarily?
You won’t even remember.
He knew the truth of his own actions, the instinctive protective urge that had risen within him that morning.
But he also knew the dangers of such impulses, the vulnerabilities they created.
Don’t be so kind carelessly from now on.
The unspoken warning hung in the air, a silent vow to himself.
After Blayden turned away, Leni’s quick steps stopped.
The sound of his footsteps, steady and receding, filled the momentary silence.
She turned her head, gazing at Blayden’s broad shoulders bathed in sunlight, the strong, capable form that had shielded her that morning.
Then, she forced a smile, a fragile mask over a multitude of conflicting emotions.
Thank you for this morning.
But I don’t think I can rely on your kindness anymore, Knight.
She acknowledged the fleeting moment of his protection, but also recognized the impossible reality of her situation.
I’ve made a deal with the prince.
I’m sorry.
Her whispered apology was for the unspoken bond that had formed, a fleeting connection that she now had to sever.
I have a father to save.
This was her driving force, the unwavering purpose that overshadowed all other considerations.
Leni rubbed her stinging nose with her hand, a small, involuntary gesture of discomfort, and turned away, resuming her hurried pace.
As soon as she took a step, a sigh escaped her, a deep, frustrated exhalation.
You fool.
Blocking an arrow with an apple was one time.
Dealing with the assassin was one time.
You should have had your usefulness acknowledged twice.
Her inner monologue was a harsh self-reprimand, a testament to her keen, if sometimes delayed, strategic thinking.
This was a deal for freedom; I suffered a huge loss.
The realization of her oversight brought a fresh wave of chagrin.
***
A cool, damp air hung in the top room of the Tower of Time, the oppressive silence broken only by the distant drip of water.
When the guards, their faces impassive, lifted the heavy, rusted bars dividing the room, the metallic clang reverberated through the cavernous space.
Kallian entered the shabby inner room, his steps hesitant, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
Martin Skalson leaned against the wall, eyes closed, his posture unnaturally still and rigid.
He was a stark shadow of the man Kallian remembered.
His face was thinner, almost skeletal, and his body was gaunter than when they met at the Tarsewin Temple, the once robust frame now shrunken and frail.
His hair, looking as if covered in snow, had grown long, a tangled mass of white threads that cascaded over his shoulders, framing a face etched with suffering.
His thick eyebrows and bushy beard were also white, stark against his pallid skin.
Coincidentally, wearing a white tunic, Martin looked like a legendary ice spirit, a spectral figure from a forgotten tale, his presence adding to the chilling atmosphere of the room.
Gray mist rose from the opposite side of the room, swirling and coalescing before flowing with an eerie purpose toward Martin.
It coiled around him like a living entity, obscuring his form.
Pushing through the snake-like writhing mist, its tendrils brushing against his robes, Kallian approached the stone platform where his father lay.
The king, dressed in splendid robes, robes that seemed absurdly grand in this desolate setting, was astonishingly robust.
It was a macabre spectacle, a stark contrast to Martin’s emaciated form.
His face, which had been clearly ailing, marked by the ravages of a prolonged illness, was now ruddy, vibrant with a disturbing semblance of health.
His wrinkles had vanished, as if smoothed away by an unseen hand, leaving behind a youthful, almost unsettling, perfection.
His emaciated body had gained flesh, restoring his former imposing physique, the very image of a powerful monarch.
This was the result of the exchange, the terrible bargain that had granted his father renewed vitality at Martin’s expense.
Exchanging time, they said—it was true.
The grim reality of the transaction settled heavily upon Kallian.
He peered into Tigrinus’s face, a face so deceptively alive, which looked as though he might open his eyes and command the kingdom at any moment, his voice booming with authority. \
The illusion of life was almost too perfect, a cruel mockery of what had truly transpired.
I’ve come to give you a chance.
So show me.
Proof that you love me.
Proof that you want me, not Blayden, as your successor.
The unspoken plea echoed in Kallian’s mind, a desperate hope clinging to the shreds of his father’s affection.
He had yearned for this acknowledgement for so long, to be chosen, to be loved above all others.
Where is the king’s seal?
Where is the map of the God’s Tear?
These were the tangible proofs he sought, the keys to his future, the validation of his worth.
Your Majesty.
Kallian extended a trembling hand, the fear and anticipation warring within him, and placed it on Tigrinus’s chest.
A faint heartbeat echoed from the cold, unyielding body, a ghostly thump that sent shivers down Kallian’s arm.
It was a sound that defied logic, a pulse from a body that should have been utterly lifeless.
When the prince’s breath trembled, a fragile gasp in the heavy air, white smoke rose from the king’s chest, spiraling upwards like a phantom breath.
The cold, sticky air coiled around his arm, a chilling embrace that sent a jolt of alarm through him.
Kallian flinched, pulling his hand back as if burned, his heart leaping into his throat.
The smoke writhed like lips, twisting and forming an impossible shape, and then, a voice, ethereal and chilling, spoke.
“I am alive.”
Kallian almost fell backward, stumbling away from the spectral utterance, his face pale with disbelief and dread.
“Doing nothing is death.”
The voice, now imbued with a strange, otherworldly resonance, continued.
The smoke, having emitted a woman’s voice, conjured an illusion, a shimmering, translucent image that formed before Kallian’s stunned eyes.
Snowflakes covered the sky, falling in a silent, ceaseless descent, painting the world in shades of white.
An endless expanse of ice fields stretched to the horizon, a frozen desolation.
A girl wrapped in a red cloak stood in the midst of this glacial landscape, a stark contrast to the monochrome surroundings.
Before her stood an ice cliff, towering and formidable, its surface shimmering with an ethereal glow.
The girl lifted her face, hidden by her hood, revealing a delicate profile, and cried out, her voice a desperate plea, “Grant me a prophecy!”
The sound, though an illusion, seemed to echo through the cold, vast expanse.
Kallian recognized the girl instantly: Lavinia Meteus.
His father’s only love.
The face from the portrait his father cherished like a treasure, the one he had gazed upon with such profound longing.
The bitterness that had festered in his heart for years resurfaced, sharp and acrid.
A shard of ice, sharp and glistening, fell between the girl’s eyebrows.
The sharp edge cut her skin, a thin crimson line appearing on her forehead, and blood trickled down between her golden brows, a stark, violent stain against the pristine white of her skin.
The image, though an illusion, was horrifyingly vivid.
Kallian clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms.
Even on the brink of death, even now, are you only thinking of that woman?
Have you forgotten my mother, whom you exploited and abandoned?
The silent accusation was laced with years of resentment, of feeling unloved and unwanted.
Your son is here.
The child you scorned as weak still looks to you, craving love and attention.
The words remained unspoken, trapped in his throat, a testament to the chasm that had always existed between them.
“Father.”
His voice was a raw whisper, filled with a desperate plea for recognition, for even a flicker of warmth.
But the king remained motionless, lying like a corpse, utterly unresponsive, merely lost in the memory of a woman long dead, a ghost from a past that held more sway than his living son.
If you long for her so much, go meet her.
I will send you.
The unspoken thought was a dark, chilling vow. Kallian gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw rigid with suppressed rage, and turned away.
His empty steps carried him across the cell, each footfall echoing the hollowness within him.
The heavy door closed quietly behind him, sealing him off from the spectral vision and the silent, unresponsive king.
In the silent room, the mist grew dense, its swirling tendrils thickening, filling the space with an almost palpable presence.
Enveloped in the shroud-like mist, Tigrinus’s body stirred, a subtle, almost imperceptible tremor that defied the laws of life and death.
Kallian, I have already given it to you. The God’s Tear has been by your side all along.
The woman’s voice, now clearer, more resonant, filled the room.
The words were a revelation, a sudden, blinding insight that sent a jolt through Kallian, even outside the room.
You must break that seal on the darkest day.
Before it’s too late.
Before everything vanishes and only an empty plain remains.
The urgency in the voice was palpable, a desperate warning of impending doom.
“Kallian!”
The king’s cry, filled with a sudden, desperate urgency, reached no one.
It dissipated into the oppressive silence, a futile plea lost in the vastness of the tower.
“Hahahaha!”
An eerie, guttural laugh echoed through the cell, a sound that sent shivers down the spine.
The mist, darkened with a black hue, surged towards Martin, engulfing him completely.
Martin’s body, which had been sitting upright, rigid against the wall, crumbled like ash, dissolving into nothingness, leaving behind only the lingering scent of decay and a sense of profound loss.
***
The Ruette Convent, as its name implied, straddled the borders where small kingdoms met, a neutral ground in a landscape often riddled with conflict.
It was a place of quiet contemplation, a sanctuary from the tumultuous world beyond its walls.
The ancient main building, with its towering bell tower and graceful spires, belonged half to Ruhachen and half to Evlan, a testament to its unique position.
The annex, a more modest structure that served as the nuns’ living quarters, was situated entirely on Treya’s land.
Behind the spacious garden attached to the annex lay a cemetery, its weathered gravestones bearing silent witness to generations past.
Beyond the cemetery, a vast forest stretched out, its dense canopy a vibrant green against the sky.
A formidable wooden fence, tall and sturdy, protected the convent grounds from wild animals, creating a secure boundary between the civilized world and the untamed wilderness.
When the Kinolf unit members, excluding Lentz who had gone to his family home, arrived at the convent, the Mother Superior came out to greet them.
Mother Superior Onella Ericanine, a woman in her mid-50s with a short, petite stature, possessed an air of quiet authority.
Her impressive intelligent eyes held a deep understanding, and her gentle smile conveyed a sense of warmth and compassion.
“Sir Rehart, it’s been a long time.”
Her affectionate greeting to Blayden suggested a long-standing acquaintance, a history that Leni could only guess at.
Blayden bowed respectfully to the Mother Superior, a gesture of reverence that surprised Leni. Was he a religious person?
The thought was unexpected, given his often gruff demeanor.
“I’m glad to see you’re well.”
Blayden, who responded in a dignified tone Leni had never heard before, a voice stripped of its usual cynicism and impatience, added something else.
His exotic and unfamiliar pronunciation sounded like the ancient language of Chiabec, a series of guttural yet melodic sounds that seemed to flow effortlessly from his lips.
The two gave the impression of conversing in a code only they understood, a private language born of shared experience.
They seemed quite close, their unspoken understanding palpable.
What’s their relationship?
As Leni wondered, a bell chimed, its resonant peal signaling the hour.
It was the signal for 5 PM, marking the end of the day’s labors and the beginning of the evening’s routine.
“You’ve timed your arrival well.”
When the Mother Superior announced that supper would begin soon, something astonishing happened.
A subtle shift in Blayden’s expression, a softening of his rigid features, caught Leni’s attention.
“I was hungry.”
A soft, almost childlike smile, a rare and unexpected sight, appeared on Blayden’s usually rigid face.
It was a fleeting expression, quickly gone, but it left Leni momentarily speechless.
The Kinolf unit members and Leni walked through the cloister, its arched walkways and serene atmosphere calming their weary spirits, to the refectory.
Just as the space was spacious but simple, devoid of unnecessary ornamentation, the food on the tables was also plain, reflecting the convent’s commitment to austerity.
Salmon with peas was the main dish, a humble but nourishing meal, and rye bread and honey wine were distributed in portions for six people.
There was no meat or dairy, a strict adherence to their dietary restrictions, but Blayden showed no concern.
As if it were proper, as if he had observed this ritual countless times, he sat in a corner, away from the more boisterous Kinolf members, made the sign of the cross, bowed his head slightly in prayer, and then took a sip of wine first, a solemn and deliberate act.
True to their pursuit of temperance and austerity, the nuns ate sparingly, their movements precise and economical.
Their meal portions seemed to be strictly regulated by their vows, a testament to their self-discipline.
Mealtime was a period of silence.
Lips were used only for eating, their faces serene and focused, words were forgotten, replaced by the quiet sounds of chewing and the rustle of clothing.
The Kinolf unit members also melted into the silence, their usual boisterousness replaced by a newfound solemnity.
Even Gustav, who usually seemed to sprout thorns if he didn’t crack a joke, focused on his meal with a reverent posture, his usual antics subdued.
In the absence of speech, communication was done through hand gestures, a silent language developed over centuries of monastic life.
Leni observed with fascination as Blayden next to her raised his right hand and drew an arc with his index finger from his ear to his chin.
Lentz, sitting opposite, understood immediately and handed him wine, a silent exchange that spoke volumes.
A moment later, Blayden drew a horizontal line across his neck with his index finger, and a glass bottle of vinegar went to him, its dark liquid shimmering in the dim light.
Leni looked around the table.
Hands moved in various forms everywhere, a silent ballet of requests and offerings.
Observation continued as their stomachs were filled, and soon, Leni, with her quick wit and sharp perception, began to understand a few of the hand gestures, deciphering their meaning with growing confidence.
As Leni smiled, proud of her new learning, her eyes met Blayden’s across the table.
She blinked, a slight hesitation, then held his gaze.
Several times her eyes closed and opened, a silent challenge, but Blayden didn’t look away.
He met her gaze calmly, his expression steady, a hint of something unreadable in his dark eyes.
What was he thinking?
Half-curious, half-playful, Leni decided to test her newfound knowledge.
She ran her index finger from her ear to her chin, the gesture for wine.
A slave asking her master for food, how audacious!
It was a bold move, a playful rebellion against their established dynamic.
Contrary to her expectation that a sharp glare would follow, Blayden’s hand moved, reaching for a nearby basket.
Ah, she’d finally get some wine after a long time.
Leni licked her lips in anticipation, the thought of the sweet drink a welcome prospect.
Then she frowned at what was offered to her.
What Blayden held in his hand was an apple, its rosy skin gleaming in the dim light.
Just as she wondered if she had misunderstood the hand signal, Sharino across from them made the same gesture to Gabriel.
Wine was placed in front of Sharino, a confirmation that Leni’s understanding of the gesture was correct.
“Give me wine too,” Leni shook her head, a silent protest, and repeated the gesture from before, making her intentions clear.
Blayden nonchalantly placed another apple in front of her, his expression unreadable, a hint of mischief in his eyes.
Leni made a cutting motion across her neck with her index finger, the signal for vinegar, a sharp, decisive gesture.
As if it were obvious, as if he knew exactly what she truly desired, honey was placed in front of her, a golden, viscous liquid shimmering invitingly.
This confirmed it.
Blayden was messing with her, playing a silent game that only he seemed to understand.
He was deliberately misinterpreting her requests, perhaps as a test of her patience, or simply to amuse himself.
“I can’t even argue here. Playing with food, how petty!”
Leni grumbled inwardly, her frustration simmering beneath the surface.
It was a silent rebellion, a small act of defiance in a place where spoken words were forbidden.
Just then, Blayden cut the apple with a dagger, its blade glinting in the candlelight.
He dipped a small piece of apple in honey, sprinkled cinnamon powder on it, the fragrant spice creating a delicate aroma, and put it in his mouth, a slow, deliberate movement.
Leni narrowed her eyes, a spark of competitive spirit igniting within her, then copied Blayden.
Apple dipped in honey, a sprinkle of cinnamon.
Gulp.
Yum yum.
A sweet and slightly bitter aroma spread in her mouth, a surprising burst of flavor that melted away her irritation.
Hmm, it’s quite delicious.
She cut another piece of apple and dipped it in honey, her earlier annoyance replaced by a newfound appreciation for the simple treat.
A faint smile appeared and vanished on Blayden’s lips as she sprinkled cinnamon powder, a brief, almost imperceptible flicker of amusement, but she didn’t notice, too engrossed in her culinary discovery.
Blayden also didn’t notice the tears welling up in the eyes of Mother Superior Ericanine, who was watching him and Leni from across the refectory, a profound and tender emotion reflected in her gaze.
She recognized the quiet kindness in his actions, the unexpected softness in his demeanor, a side of him she had not seen in a very long time.”Excuse me?”
Leni looked up at him with moist eyes.
Even though Blayden knew it was an act to get what she wanted, he asked, “Is there something you wish for?”
“Excuse me?”
“If you were free, I mean. What would you want to do with your life?”
“I want to travel all over the world. I want to hear many stories and create even more.”
Blayden thought of the bird in the Foret Forest.
A small, lovely life that he ultimately couldn’t protect.
Its delicate song, once a source of comfort, had become a haunting melody in his memories.
He remembered the swift, brutal end of that fleeting beauty, a wound that still festered in his heart.
“Stories, you say? What are you talking about? And ‘do what’? Of course, I’ll make people laugh and cry.”
Its song was beautiful, just like your voice now.
The resemblance sent a shiver down his spine.
He remembered the captivating allure of that bird, the way its vibrant plumage had shimmered in the sunlight, drawing him closer.
And then, the sudden, violent silence.
That beauty eventually became a dagger that pierced his heart. Are you saying you’d do such a thing too?
That’s why you’re a kid.
Don’t carelessly try to meddle with people’s hearts.
You play with emotions as if they’re toys, unaware of the profound damage you could inflict.
Not when you can’t even handle the consequences.
You speak of making people laugh and cry as if it’s a simple performance, a mere turn of phrase.
But the weight of such an act, the lasting impact, is something you cannot yet comprehend.
His gaze fell on Leni’s lips, the soft curve of them, and a sudden, sharp ache resonated in his chest.
His heart, already burdened by unspoken grief, seemed to constrict, and Blayden winced. Leni’s eyes quickly turned red, the moisture intensifying, a carefully constructed façade of wounded innocence.
“You shouldn’t mock someone’s dream.”
Her voice, though feigned, carried a surprising tremor, adding to the illusion.
Why did he feel sorry for mocking her?
Why did he have to care about this kid’s feelings?
He, who had vowed to harden his heart against such trivialities, found himself inexplicably drawn into her emotional orbit.
Should he even try to soothe her with sweet lies, to offer platitudes that would only further entangle them?
His heart, which seemed to have been broken since dawn, a raw, exposed nerve, was perplexed by this unexpected surge of empathy.
Blayden grumbled, the words rough and unyielding, a futile attempt to regain his composure.
“Stories or not, for now, become a diligent slave.”
The harshness of his tone was meant to create distance, to reassert his authority, but even as he spoke, he felt a strange reluctance.
“If I’m diligent, will you promise me? That you’ll release me if I prove my usefulness three times?”
Her voice, now laced with a hopeful urgency, cut through his internal turmoil.
Her eyes, still glistening, held a spark of defiant ambition.
“Alright.”
The word escaped him, almost against his will.
He became afraid of how his heart would flow if this conversation dragged on, of the unpredictable currents that Leni’s presence seemed to stir within him.
He was a man of order, of control, and this young girl, with her audacious dreams and manipulative charm, threatened to unravel everything he held sacred.
“Oh!”
Leni’s eyes widened, a genuine flicker of surprise replacing the feigned sorrow.
She jumped up, a sudden burst of energy, her previous distress forgotten.
Had she not expected him to agree?
She clapped her hands together, a bright, childish sound, beaming as if she’d found an unexpected windfall, a hidden treasure.
The joy on her face was infectious, momentarily dispelling his grim mood.
“I proved it once this morning.”
Her voice was triumphant, brimming with self-satisfaction.
“What?”
Blayden’s brow furrowed, a flicker of confusion crossing his features.
He hadn’t recalled any such arrangement.
“When I blocked the arrow with an apple and dealt with the assassin with a dagger. You said I was quite useful then, didn’t you? Now only two times are left.”
To count even what happened before the deal, her calculations were arbitrary, a clever manipulation of the terms he had so carelessly offered.
She was quick, he had to admit, almost unnervingly so.
“You must keep your promise.”
Her voice, though still light, held a note of steel, a clear warning that she would not let him renege.
Watching Leni’s eyes sparkle as she raised the end of her sentence, a mixture of amusement and a strange melancholy washed over Blayden.
He’d said it to make the kid happy, a fleeting impulse of generosity, but seeing her bright smile made him feel rather choked up, a complex knot of emotions tightening in his chest.
He was accustomed to commanding fear and respect, not this unsettling tenderness.
“The trouble I’ll cause in the future might be more serious than killing someone. Because I’m exceptionally capable.”
Her words were a veiled threat, delivered with an innocent smile, hinting at a mischievous streak that could prove far more challenging than any physical confrontation.
She was a force to be reckoned with, he realized, a whirlwind of unpredictable energy.
“What are you trying to say?”
Blayden asked, a hint of exasperation in his voice.
“No matter what happens, you don’t need to look after me like you did this morning. I’ll decline your kindness. I’ll protect myself. With this amazing weapon you just bestowed upon me.”
Leni, who had spoken primly, her posture straight and proud, bowed gracefully, a theatrical flourish, and then turned away.
Her red cloak swirled around her as she walked, a vibrant splash of color against the muted backdrop of the world.
Was this her revenge for not allowing her a weapon?
Blayden scratched his chin, a faint smile playing on his lips as he watched her red hair sway in the wind.
She was an enigma, this child, a constant source of surprise and irritation.
Who was kind first?
Why did you look after me and smile arbitrarily?
You won’t even remember.
He knew the truth of his own actions, the instinctive protective urge that had risen within him that morning.
But he also knew the dangers of such impulses, the vulnerabilities they created.
Don’t be so kind carelessly from now on.
The unspoken warning hung in the air, a silent vow to himself.
After Blayden turned away, Leni’s quick steps stopped.
The sound of his footsteps, steady and receding, filled the momentary silence.
She turned her head, gazing at Blayden’s broad shoulders bathed in sunlight, the strong, capable form that had shielded her that morning.
Then, she forced a smile, a fragile mask over a multitude of conflicting emotions.
Thank you for this morning.
But I don’t think I can rely on your kindness anymore, Knight.
She acknowledged the fleeting moment of his protection, but also recognized the impossible reality of her situation.
I’ve made a deal with the prince.
I’m sorry.
Her whispered apology was for the unspoken bond that had formed, a fleeting connection that she now had to sever.
I have a father to save.
This was her driving force, the unwavering purpose that overshadowed all other considerations.
Leni rubbed her stinging nose with her hand, a small, involuntary gesture of discomfort, and turned away, resuming her hurried pace.
As soon as she took a step, a sigh escaped her, a deep, frustrated exhalation.
You fool.
Blocking an arrow with an apple was one time.
Dealing with the assassin was one time.
You should have had your usefulness acknowledged twice.
Her inner monologue was a harsh self-reprimand, a testament to her keen, if sometimes delayed, strategic thinking.
This was a deal for freedom; I suffered a huge loss.
The realization of her oversight brought a fresh wave of chagrin.
***
A cool, damp air hung in the top room of the Tower of Time, the oppressive silence broken only by the distant drip of water.
When the guards, their faces impassive, lifted the heavy, rusted bars dividing the room, the metallic clang reverberated through the cavernous space.
Kallian entered the shabby inner room, his steps hesitant, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
Martin Skalson leaned against the wall, eyes closed, his posture unnaturally still and rigid.
He was a stark shadow of the man Kallian remembered.
His face was thinner, almost skeletal, and his body was gaunter than when they met at the Tarsewin Temple, the once robust frame now shrunken and frail.
His hair, looking as if covered in snow, had grown long, a tangled mass of white threads that cascaded over his shoulders, framing a face etched with suffering.
His thick eyebrows and bushy beard were also white, stark against his pallid skin.
Coincidentally, wearing a white tunic, Martin looked like a legendary ice spirit, a spectral figure from a forgotten tale, his presence adding to the chilling atmosphere of the room.
Gray mist rose from the opposite side of the room, swirling and coalescing before flowing with an eerie purpose toward Martin.
It coiled around him like a living entity, obscuring his form.
Pushing through the snake-like writhing mist, its tendrils brushing against his robes, Kallian approached the stone platform where his father lay.
The king, dressed in splendid robes, robes that seemed absurdly grand in this desolate setting, was astonishingly robust.
It was a macabre spectacle, a stark contrast to Martin’s emaciated form.
His face, which had been clearly ailing, marked by the ravages of a prolonged illness, was now ruddy, vibrant with a disturbing semblance of health.
His wrinkles had vanished, as if smoothed away by an unseen hand, leaving behind a youthful, almost unsettling, perfection.
His emaciated body had gained flesh, restoring his former imposing physique, the very image of a powerful monarch.
This was the result of the exchange, the terrible bargain that had granted his father renewed vitality at Martin’s expense.
Exchanging time, they said—it was true.
The grim reality of the transaction settled heavily upon Kallian.
He peered into Tigrinus’s face, a face so deceptively alive, which looked as though he might open his eyes and command the kingdom at any moment, his voice booming with authority. \
The illusion of life was almost too perfect, a cruel mockery of what had truly transpired.
I’ve come to give you a chance.
So show me.
Proof that you love me.
Proof that you want me, not Blayden, as your successor.
The unspoken plea echoed in Kallian’s mind, a desperate hope clinging to the shreds of his father’s affection.
He had yearned for this acknowledgement for so long, to be chosen, to be loved above all others.
Where is the king’s seal?
Where is the map of the God’s Tear?
These were the tangible proofs he sought, the keys to his future, the validation of his worth.
Your Majesty.
Kallian extended a trembling hand, the fear and anticipation warring within him, and placed it on Tigrinus’s chest.
A faint heartbeat echoed from the cold, unyielding body, a ghostly thump that sent shivers down Kallian’s arm.
It was a sound that defied logic, a pulse from a body that should have been utterly lifeless.
When the prince’s breath trembled, a fragile gasp in the heavy air, white smoke rose from the king’s chest, spiraling upwards like a phantom breath.
The cold, sticky air coiled around his arm, a chilling embrace that sent a jolt of alarm through him.
Kallian flinched, pulling his hand back as if burned, his heart leaping into his throat.
The smoke writhed like lips, twisting and forming an impossible shape, and then, a voice, ethereal and chilling, spoke.
“I am alive.”
Kallian almost fell backward, stumbling away from the spectral utterance, his face pale with disbelief and dread.
“Doing nothing is death.”
The voice, now imbued with a strange, otherworldly resonance, continued.
The smoke, having emitted a woman’s voice, conjured an illusion, a shimmering, translucent image that formed before Kallian’s stunned eyes.
Snowflakes covered the sky, falling in a silent, ceaseless descent, painting the world in shades of white.
An endless expanse of ice fields stretched to the horizon, a frozen desolation.
A girl wrapped in a red cloak stood in the midst of this glacial landscape, a stark contrast to the monochrome surroundings.
Before her stood an ice cliff, towering and formidable, its surface shimmering with an ethereal glow.
The girl lifted her face, hidden by her hood, revealing a delicate profile, and cried out, her voice a desperate plea, “Grant me a prophecy!”
The sound, though an illusion, seemed to echo through the cold, vast expanse.
Kallian recognized the girl instantly: Lavinia Meteus.
His father’s only love.
The face from the portrait his father cherished like a treasure, the one he had gazed upon with such profound longing.
The bitterness that had festered in his heart for years resurfaced, sharp and acrid.
A shard of ice, sharp and glistening, fell between the girl’s eyebrows.
The sharp edge cut her skin, a thin crimson line appearing on her forehead, and blood trickled down between her golden brows, a stark, violent stain against the pristine white of her skin.
The image, though an illusion, was horrifyingly vivid.
Kallian clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms.
Even on the brink of death, even now, are you only thinking of that woman?
Have you forgotten my mother, whom you exploited and abandoned?
The silent accusation was laced with years of resentment, of feeling unloved and unwanted.
Your son is here.
The child you scorned as weak still looks to you, craving love and attention.
The words remained unspoken, trapped in his throat, a testament to the chasm that had always existed between them.
“Father.”
His voice was a raw whisper, filled with a desperate plea for recognition, for even a flicker of warmth.
But the king remained motionless, lying like a corpse, utterly unresponsive, merely lost in the memory of a woman long dead, a ghost from a past that held more sway than his living son.
If you long for her so much, go meet her.
I will send you.
The unspoken thought was a dark, chilling vow. Kallian gritted his teeth, the muscles in his jaw rigid with suppressed rage, and turned away.
His empty steps carried him across the cell, each footfall echoing the hollowness within him.
The heavy door closed quietly behind him, sealing him off from the spectral vision and the silent, unresponsive king.
In the silent room, the mist grew dense, its swirling tendrils thickening, filling the space with an almost palpable presence.
Enveloped in the shroud-like mist, Tigrinus’s body stirred, a subtle, almost imperceptible tremor that defied the laws of life and death.
Kallian, I have already given it to you. The God’s Tear has been by your side all along.
The woman’s voice, now clearer, more resonant, filled the room.
The words were a revelation, a sudden, blinding insight that sent a jolt through Kallian, even outside the room.
You must break that seal on the darkest day.
Before it’s too late.
Before everything vanishes and only an empty plain remains.
The urgency in the voice was palpable, a desperate warning of impending doom.
“Kallian!”
The king’s cry, filled with a sudden, desperate urgency, reached no one.
It dissipated into the oppressive silence, a futile plea lost in the vastness of the tower.
“Hahahaha!”
An eerie, guttural laugh echoed through the cell, a sound that sent shivers down the spine.
The mist, darkened with a black hue, surged towards Martin, engulfing him completely.
Martin’s body, which had been sitting upright, rigid against the wall, crumbled like ash, dissolving into nothingness, leaving behind only the lingering scent of decay and a sense of profound loss.
***
The Ruette Convent, as its name implied, straddled the borders where small kingdoms met, a neutral ground in a landscape often riddled with conflict.
It was a place of quiet contemplation, a sanctuary from the tumultuous world beyond its walls.
The ancient main building, with its towering bell tower and graceful spires, belonged half to Ruhachen and half to Evlan, a testament to its unique position.
The annex, a more modest structure that served as the nuns’ living quarters, was situated entirely on Treya’s land.
Behind the spacious garden attached to the annex lay a cemetery, its weathered gravestones bearing silent witness to generations past.
Beyond the cemetery, a vast forest stretched out, its dense canopy a vibrant green against the sky.
A formidable wooden fence, tall and sturdy, protected the convent grounds from wild animals, creating a secure boundary between the civilized world and the untamed wilderness.
When the Kinolf unit members, excluding Lentz who had gone to his family home, arrived at the convent, the Mother Superior came out to greet them.
Mother Superior Onella Ericanine, a woman in her mid-50s with a short, petite stature, possessed an air of quiet authority.
Her impressive intelligent eyes held a deep understanding, and her gentle smile conveyed a sense of warmth and compassion.
“Sir Rehart, it’s been a long time.”
Her affectionate greeting to Blayden suggested a long-standing acquaintance, a history that Leni could only guess at.
Blayden bowed respectfully to the Mother Superior, a gesture of reverence that surprised Leni. Was he a religious person?
The thought was unexpected, given his often gruff demeanor.
“I’m glad to see you’re well.”
Blayden, who responded in a dignified tone Leni had never heard before, a voice stripped of its usual cynicism and impatience, added something else.
His exotic and unfamiliar pronunciation sounded like the ancient language of Chiabec, a series of guttural yet melodic sounds that seemed to flow effortlessly from his lips.
The two gave the impression of conversing in a code only they understood, a private language born of shared experience.
They seemed quite close, their unspoken understanding palpable.
What’s their relationship?
As Leni wondered, a bell chimed, its resonant peal signaling the hour.
It was the signal for 5 PM, marking the end of the day’s labors and the beginning of the evening’s routine.
“You’ve timed your arrival well.”
When the Mother Superior announced that supper would begin soon, something astonishing happened.
A subtle shift in Blayden’s expression, a softening of his rigid features, caught Leni’s attention.
“I was hungry.”
A soft, almost childlike smile, a rare and unexpected sight, appeared on Blayden’s usually rigid face.
It was a fleeting expression, quickly gone, but it left Leni momentarily speechless.
The Kinolf unit members and Leni walked through the cloister, its arched walkways and serene atmosphere calming their weary spirits, to the refectory.
Just as the space was spacious but simple, devoid of unnecessary ornamentation, the food on the tables was also plain, reflecting the convent’s commitment to austerity.
Salmon with peas was the main dish, a humble but nourishing meal, and rye bread and honey wine were distributed in portions for six people.
There was no meat or dairy, a strict adherence to their dietary restrictions, but Blayden showed no concern.
As if it were proper, as if he had observed this ritual countless times, he sat in a corner, away from the more boisterous Kinolf members, made the sign of the cross, bowed his head slightly in prayer, and then took a sip of wine first, a solemn and deliberate act.
True to their pursuit of temperance and austerity, the nuns ate sparingly, their movements precise and economical.
Their meal portions seemed to be strictly regulated by their vows, a testament to their self-discipline.
Mealtime was a period of silence.
Lips were used only for eating, their faces serene and focused, words were forgotten, replaced by the quiet sounds of chewing and the rustle of clothing.
The Kinolf unit members also melted into the silence, their usual boisterousness replaced by a newfound solemnity.
Even Gustav, who usually seemed to sprout thorns if he didn’t crack a joke, focused on his meal with a reverent posture, his usual antics subdued.
In the absence of speech, communication was done through hand gestures, a silent language developed over centuries of monastic life.
Leni observed with fascination as Blayden next to her raised his right hand and drew an arc with his index finger from his ear to his chin.
Lentz, sitting opposite, understood immediately and handed him wine, a silent exchange that spoke volumes.
A moment later, Blayden drew a horizontal line across his neck with his index finger, and a glass bottle of vinegar went to him, its dark liquid shimmering in the dim light.
Leni looked around the table.
Hands moved in various forms everywhere, a silent ballet of requests and offerings.
Observation continued as their stomachs were filled, and soon, Leni, with her quick wit and sharp perception, began to understand a few of the hand gestures, deciphering their meaning with growing confidence.
As Leni smiled, proud of her new learning, her eyes met Blayden’s across the table.
She blinked, a slight hesitation, then held his gaze.
Several times her eyes closed and opened, a silent challenge, but Blayden didn’t look away.
He met her gaze calmly, his expression steady, a hint of something unreadable in his dark eyes.
What was he thinking?
Half-curious, half-playful, Leni decided to test her newfound knowledge.
She ran her index finger from her ear to her chin, the gesture for wine.
A slave asking her master for food, how audacious!
It was a bold move, a playful rebellion against their established dynamic.
Contrary to her expectation that a sharp glare would follow, Blayden’s hand moved, reaching for a nearby basket.
Ah, she’d finally get some wine after a long time.
Leni licked her lips in anticipation, the thought of the sweet drink a welcome prospect.
Then she frowned at what was offered to her.
What Blayden held in his hand was an apple, its rosy skin gleaming in the dim light.
Just as she wondered if she had misunderstood the hand signal, Sharino across from them made the same gesture to Gabriel.
Wine was placed in front of Sharino, a confirmation that Leni’s understanding of the gesture was correct.
“Give me wine too,” Leni shook her head, a silent protest, and repeated the gesture from before, making her intentions clear.
Blayden nonchalantly placed another apple in front of her, his expression unreadable, a hint of mischief in his eyes.
Leni made a cutting motion across her neck with her index finger, the signal for vinegar, a sharp, decisive gesture.
As if it were obvious, as if he knew exactly what she truly desired, honey was placed in front of her, a golden, viscous liquid shimmering invitingly.
This confirmed it.
Blayden was messing with her, playing a silent game that only he seemed to understand.
He was deliberately misinterpreting her requests, perhaps as a test of her patience, or simply to amuse himself.
“I can’t even argue here. Playing with food, how petty!”
Leni grumbled inwardly, her frustration simmering beneath the surface.
It was a silent rebellion, a small act of defiance in a place where spoken words were forbidden.
Just then, Blayden cut the apple with a dagger, its blade glinting in the candlelight.
He dipped a small piece of apple in honey, sprinkled cinnamon powder on it, the fragrant spice creating a delicate aroma, and put it in his mouth, a slow, deliberate movement.
Leni narrowed her eyes, a spark of competitive spirit igniting within her, then copied Blayden.
Apple dipped in honey, a sprinkle of cinnamon.
Gulp.
Yum yum.
A sweet and slightly bitter aroma spread in her mouth, a surprising burst of flavor that melted away her irritation.
Hmm, it’s quite delicious.
She cut another piece of apple and dipped it in honey, her earlier annoyance replaced by a newfound appreciation for the simple treat.
A faint smile appeared and vanished on Blayden’s lips as she sprinkled cinnamon powder, a brief, almost imperceptible flicker of amusement, but she didn’t notice, too engrossed in her culinary discovery.
Blayden also didn’t notice the tears welling up in the eyes of Mother Superior Ericanine, who was watching him and Leni from across the refectory, a profound and tender emotion reflected in her gaze.
She recognized the quiet kindness in his actions, the unexpected softness in his demeanor, a side of him she had not seen in a very long time.
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