"The Cold Princess of the Azel Empire…" Leon muttered, eyes following the golden figure climbing the sacred steps. "Even back at the academy, she carried herself like this—distant, unshakable, like nothing could ever touch her."
"We should be grateful she's here," Asuma said, his gaze sharp. "Because of her, the guards and clergy are too distracted to notice us. Our path to the garden just opened."
Seizing the rare opportunity, the trio moved quickly, cloaked by the clamor below and the reverent silence that followed Urialla's daring proclamation. They ascended the stone staircase with cautious steps, careful not to make a sound that could betray their presence. Though the princess walked far ahead, they remained just enough behind to avoid entering her awareness.
As they reached the summit of Mount Tar, the chaos and noise of Talagra faded into a sacred hush, replaced by the soft whisper of mountain wind weaving through blossoms.
The Garden of Tara was a breathtaking sanctuary nestled atop the peaks. It bloomed with flora from every corner of Anorak—crimson fire lilies from the volcanic south, whispering snow-petals from the elven north, sky orchids said to grow only under starlight. Some flowers they didn't recognize at all—radiant, otherworldly blooms that pulsed faintly with magic, their fragrance thick in the air, both intoxicating and haunting.
Winding paths carved from white marble twisted through the garden, leading toward the heart of the sanctuary, where a towering statue stood in solemn splendor.
Saint Arlette Snow.
Her marble form rose above the garden, a serene expression carved into her face. The Timid Saint, blessed by the Goddess of Water, revered not only as a divine priestess of her age but also as the Mother of All Elves. Her eyes gazed eternally toward the sky, hands outstretched as if in prayer, framed by a flowing robe sculpted from stone.
Before her statue lay an altar blanketed in offerings: ripe fruits from foreign lands, shimmering jewelry, enchanted trinkets, and even a sword—its hilt wrapped in blue silk, likely from a noble house. The air thrummed with reverence.
This was not just a garden—it was a shrine of forgotten power and buried truths.
Approaching the towering statue of Saint Arlette, Urialla Azel stepped with silent reverence. Her golden eyes remained locked onto the saint's sculpted gaze—stone eyes carved in prayer, frozen in eternal devotion. The petals of rare blossoms stirred faintly around her feet, as if bowing to her presence.
"Do you know the story of the Great Saint Arlette?" she asked calmly, her voice soft, but sharp as a blade veiled in silk.
Behind her, Denias, stood straight. His eyes scanned the garden warily. "Who doesn't, Princess?" he replied. "She was born a priestess, destined for a life of worship and devotion. But her father—the High Warden—forced her into war. They say she took up the sword only to protect her people."
Urialla's gaze never shifted from the statue. "A priestess turned soldier. A girl who hated war… but mastered it." She paused. "And died a saint because of it."
Denias tilted his head slightly. "Do you resent her?"
"No. I admire her," Urialla whispered. "But I hope never to be like her. A pawn of divine will. A symbol forged in tragedy."
Silence fell between them. Then, Urialla turned her head slightly, golden hair catching the breeze.
"Tell me, Denias—have you noticed anything odd about this garden?"
The captain glanced around. The garden was serene, fragrant, brimming with vibrant blossoms of every shade. From an outsider's view, it was flawless. Peaceful.
"No, Your Highness. Nothing unusual. It's beautiful."
"Beautiful…" she repeated, her voice suddenly colder.
Denias blinked, then froze—his eyes locking with hers. Urialla's pupils had changed. No longer soft circles of molten gold, but slitted, reptilian, ancient and inhuman. His breath caught in his throat.
"This garden," she said, "is saturated with poison."
She reached down and plucked a single blossom from the flowerbed. The petals shimmered in the sunlight, but the veins beneath pulsed faintly with a sickly violet hue.
"Enough poison to annihilate an entire city."
Denias instinctively reached for his blade, not in defense, but out of habit—the way any seasoned warrior would when hearing something so impossible, yet deadly real.
"But… why hasn't it spread?" he asked, eyes narrowing.
"Because of a containment spell," Urialla replied. "An ancient one, expertly woven into the soil, the air, and the very roots of this garden. Without my Draak Eyes, I would never have seen it."
She raised her gaze again. "There's a massive, dormant magic circle hidden beneath us. Someone has kept this poison sealed… but only just."
Denias shivered despite the warmth of the sun. He had grown accustomed to Urialla's many abilities. Yet, each time she unveiled the power of her bloodline, of her mysterious and whispered heritage—those Draak Eyes—it rattled something deep inside him.
Sometimes… he wondered if the princess standing before him was truly human at all.
"Who could possibly have enough aura to cast a spell like this—and why choose Arlette's Garden of all places?" Denias muttered, his brow furrowed in thought. The power required to lace an entire garden with poison and suppress it beneath an ancient magic seal was staggering.
"There aren't many in this city who are capable of casting ancient magic," Urialla replied, her voice level, but laced with subtle disdain. "In fact, there's only one I can think of. But she keeps refusing to meet with me."
Denias turned to her, puzzled. "You mean… Sage Fionalla? But that's odd. She's been missing for years—vanished from the Intelligence Department, and no one knows where she's gone."
Urialla's lips curled faintly. "You'd be surprised how close she truly is. If you know where to look…" She tapped her temple gently, her eyes glowing ever so slightly. "These cursed eyes of mine see far more than I sometimes wish. They show me truths… even the ones I'd rather leave buried."
Then, without turning, she gazed past Denias and up toward the steps behind them.
"And they also see three familiar faces… attempting to hide like children behind a staircase."
Up on the steps, the trio froze.
"Damn it—she saw us," Leon hissed.
"Of course she did," Amira replied with a sigh. "Those eyes of hers miss nothing. I warned you."
"It's no use hiding," Asuma muttered, stepping forward. "I should have known. Her vision can pierce more than illusions and distance—it sees through intent."
They emerged from their spot and ascended the steps toward the garden, unable to conceal themselves further.
The princess turned slowly as they approached, her expression unreadable—an expression she'd mastered at court. Asuma, however, found himself drawn not just to her presence but to her eyes—those legendary Draak Eyes.
The gift—or curse—of the Azel bloodline.
It was said that hundreds of years ago, during the Age of Divine Accord, a celestial dragon blessed by the Five Great Gods appeared before the royal bloodline of Azel. It offered them a boon: eyes that could perceive the unseen, unravel illusions, detect falsehoods, sense corruption, even trace magic and aura to its root. These eyes, called Draak Eyes, became the imperial family's most revered and feared trait.
So powerful were they that even the Primordial Demons, the lords of Noir, tread cautiously around a true heir of Azel.
But not all viewed it as a gift.
Many heirs of the royal line—especially the weaker ones—were said to have gone mad from what they witnessed. Cursed with eternal sight, they saw not just what lay before them but everything people tried to bury: trauma, sins, unseen emotions, things not meant for mortal eyes. For some, reality itself fractured under the weight of what they could not unsee.
Urialla, however, was different. She bore her burden with elegance—and iron.
And she was watching them now.
"You three… what are you doing here?" Denias asked, his tone both curious and cautious as he stepped forward, recognizing them from the academy days.
"Just like you, we're investigating the garden," Asuma responded, his voice calm but firm.
Urialla's golden eyes narrowed slightly, her gaze lingering on Asuma as if she were peering into the very threads of his soul.
"Curious," she murmured. "I sense traces of the aura I've been following… the same lingering signature as the one tied to the Sage."
"The Sage?" Amira echoed. "Why are you suspicious of her, Princess?"
Urialla turned, her expression serene yet impenetrable. "I'm not suspicious. I simply have questions—about the magic interwoven in this place. The seal concealing the poison in this garden is no ordinary spell. It bears the scent of ancient magic. And only one soul in this city could cast such a thing."
"Fionalla," Asuma whispered.
"Exactly." Urialla nodded. "I have sought an audience with her for months, long before this situation arose. Yet she continues to avoid me. If you are able to arrange a meeting on my behalf, I would be grateful."
"I can't guarantee anything," Asuma said, meeting her gaze. "But I'll try."
She inclined her head. "That's all I ask."
Her gaze swept over them once more, settling momentarily on Amira who had stepped closer to the flowerbed lining the garden's edge.
"I must warn you," Urialla said, her voice dropping in tone. "Do not enter the garden. Even a whisper of its aura is fatal to the unprotected."
Amira's eyes widened as she looked down at the vibrant bed of otherworldly blossoms. Despite their beauty, they radiated an unnatural stillness—like a venomous serpent beneath velvet petals.
"Then how are you unharmed?" Asuma asked, glancing at the princess who stood so close to the garden's core.
Urialla raised a hand, the golden light of her bloodline pulsing faintly along her fingers. "I was born with a divine blessing—a gift passed down through my lineage. It grants me immunity to poison, even that which stems from ancient spells. More importantly, I have the power to extend this protection to those who are sworn to me. Captain Denias, for example, walks safely under my will."
Asuma nodded thoughtfully. He'd nearly forgotten how formidable Urialla truly was. Even at the academy, she had been the cold flame—untouchable, unyielding. Her presence alone bent the air around her. Many had feared her—not just for her strength, but for the bloodline magic that seemed almost god-forged.
"Well then," she said, brushing back a lock of golden hair as she stepped past them, her knights falling into line behind her. "It was good seeing you three again. You have two days. Meet me back here—with a definite answer."
With that, she turned and descended the stairs, each footstep measured, precise, and resonant. The weight of her lineage echoed with every step, and as she disappeared from view, the garden itself seemed to grow quieter, as if holding its breath.
"Are we sure this is a good idea?" Leon asked, his brow furrowed as he glanced between his companions. "Bringing the Sage and the Princess together… didn't Fionalla say she avoids people because she fears being hunted?"
"She did," Asuma replied with a measured nod. "But rejecting the princess in this situation might've stirred more trouble than it was worth. Urialla's not someone you deny lightly."
"Still," Amira added, arms crossed as she pondered aloud, "Urialla said she's been requesting an audience with Fionalla for a while. Was that just about the poison and this conflict with the clergy? Or is there another reason she's here in Talagra?"
Her words lingered with a heavy implication—one that none of them could fully ignore.
"We'll figure that out soon enough," Asuma said. "For now, we have two clear objectives: First, uncover who cast this poison spell over the garden. Second, convince the Sage to meet with the princess."
Amira glanced toward the upper tiers of the city, where the clergy had been rallying earlier. "Then let's divide up. I'll investigate the victims—the ones who supposedly fell ill after visiting the garden. There might be patterns the city guard overlooked."
"Good idea," Asuma agreed. "I'll probe into the religious faction—someone among them might know more than they're letting on. Leon, check out the city officials. If there's corruption or a cover-up involved, it'll be buried in bureaucracy."
"On it," Leon said with a confident nod. "Though getting those guys to talk might require more wine than I'm comfortable buying."
"Just don't flirt your way through this one," Amira teased with a smirk.
"No promises," he shot back with a wink.
Asuma chuckled lightly, but his eyes remained serious. "Alright then. Let's gather what we can. We'll regroup at the antique shop once we've got something solid."
With a final nod of agreement, they parted ways—each disappearing into a different shadow of Talagra's layered streets, unaware of the hidden eyes already watching their steps.
Meanwhile, deep beneath the heart of Mount Tara, in a cavern hidden beneath layers of stone and spellwork, two cloaked figures stood over a glowing map etched into a slab of ancient obsidian. Faint blue light pulsed from the runes carved into the stone walls, casting eerie shadows that danced like ghosts behind them.
The figures wore bone-white masks—expressionless and devoid of features, save for a single black mark down the center. Their cloaks were stitched with symbols forbidden in most parts of the empire—runes that thrummed faintly with dark magic.
"Our objective remains unchanged," said the taller of the two, voice filtered through a magical distortion that warped his tone into something otherworldly. "We locate the Sage… and we silence her. Permanently."
He gestured toward the center of the glowing map, where a symbol representing the Tree-Sage's hidden domain pulsed like a heartbeat.
"We'll need the Draak-blooded princess for that," replied the second, shorter figure—her voice unmistakably female, laced with icy resolve. "Her eyes can pierce any illusion, any veil. Without them, we'll be blind to the sage's sanctuary."
She traced her finger across a section of the map—marking the royal procession's route through Talagra, then tapping the emblem of the church with deliberate contempt.
"Fortunately, one of our agents has already begun to lay the foundation. The pieces are moving, and soon the city will be too distracted by the chaos to stop us."
"Good." The taller figure nodded once. "Lord Kulmar does not tolerate failure. The Sage knows too much. If she speaks, the truth of Nior, of the gods… of him… could shatter centuries of silence."
For a brief moment, the shadows behind them seemed to quiver—as if something ancient and sentient had stirred.
The female operative stepped back from the map, her fingers tightening into a fist.
"We will not fail. By the blood pact we swore, the Sage will die… and with her, the last whisper of the old world."