The hooves of Evan's horse struck the dirt road in rhythmic urgency, kicking up small clouds of dust as he rode hard through the forest path. His body ached, still recovering from the chaos at Clares, but his mind raced even faster.
Why now? Why would the orcs attack Clares so precisely, just after the princess's disappearance? he thought. And who gains from this chaos?
He gritted his teeth as the cool wind rushed past him. A war between the Elves and Humans wasn't just devastating—it was illogical. Too perfectly timed. Too precise. Something unseen was moving behind the curtain.
It wasn't the Elves, he thought. They wouldn't risk something like this.
The orcs? Maybe... but they don't have the subtlety to manipulate both sides. The Beastkin? Merfolk? Someone else entirely?
His fingers tightened on the reins. Whoever it was, they were playing with nations like pieces on a board. The smell of pine and distant woodsmoke hit his nose, and he slowed.
As the path curved toward the lake near Kubu Fort, smoke caught his eye. A thin column rising against the blue sky. Not thick or oily enough to be a ruin. More like a camp.
Evan slowed, alert. His muscles tensed under his coat. He reached for the hilt of his sword by reflex.
He approached the source, each step of the horse measured and careful.
A solitary figure sat beside a campfire, poking the flames with a branch. The moment Evan stepped closer, the figure turned. Rugged features, fur-lined cloak, tired eyes.
Gerrard.
Evan exhaled, tension easing.
"You're alive," Gerrard said, standing up.
"I could say the same," Evan replied, dismounting. "What are you doing this far from the fort?"
Gerrard's jaw tightened. "I came looking for you. If you hadn't returned, I was prepared to tear through Clares to drag you back."
Evan frowned. "Why? What happened?"
Gerrard's voice dropped. "The fort received a Royal Decree. Three days ago. One of our members was executed in Janma."
Evan blinked. "What...?"
"They accused him of trying to assassinate a royal official. No name. No trial. No appeal. And now," he continued, "we've all been summoned. Every Golden Sun captain and leader."
Evan's throat felt dry. "They want to disband us."
Gerrard nodded. "Dyeva left for Janma with Runa, Yvette, and Ourri just before I set out. But before she left, she gathered everyone. She gave a speech that you may need to hear."
Flashback: Kubu Fort, three days ago
The great hall was packed. Dozens of Golden Sun members stood in full silence. Eyes filled with unease. Dyeva stood at the center, staff in hand.
Her voice was steady.
"Years ago, we gave everything to protect the borders. Blood. Land. Lives. But now? The nobles have forgotten."
Murmurs ran through the crowd.
"They want to disband us," she continued. "Not because we failed. Because we didn't play their game. Because we stayed loyal to the people, not the throne."
She paused, scanning the room.
"I am the Archon of Humanity. The Guildmaster of Golden Sun. And I say this: if this is our end, so be it. But let our end be on our terms."
Her hand lifted, trembling slightly.
"If one day you see the sky burn red—know this: they have betrayed us. And I ask you, go. Disperse. Live free."
Her eyes burned.
"But if one day you see the skies shine gold—return. For that means humanity still has a chance. And it will need you."
The room stood still. Then, all voices rose in unison:
"Yes, Archon."
Back on the trail, Evan looked to the horizon.
"We need to catch up to them," he said. "Before it's too late."
Gerrard nodded. "Then let's ride."
A few days later – Kubu Fort
The gates opened. Evan and Gerrard rode in, greeted by guards with wide eyes.
"Captain," one said, voice thick with emotion. "Welcome back."
No time for reunions. They repacked, grabbed supplies, and prepared for the long journey to Janma.
But just before they could leave, the sky changed.
A streak of deep crimson shot up into the heavens. The magic was raw, unfiltered—an ancient flare of intent and rage.
Everyone stopped. Even the birds in the trees fell silent.
Some wept. Others fell to their knees. A few turned away in fury, unable to look.
Evan stared up.
"Dyeva..."
Gerrard looked to him. "So what now?"
Evan closed his eyes. "We keep going. If that body was really Ourra—this isn't over. Not by a long shot."
Few Minutes Before at Janma Capital
The towering chamber doors groaned as they opened, their ironwork creaking under age and authority. The sound echoed across the vaulted ceiling like a warning bell.
Dyeva entered first.
Her robes were clean but heavy with the weight of the road. Her boots tapped softly on the polished obsidian stone as she walked—a slow, deliberate rhythm. Behind her came Runa, Yvette, and Ourri, their steps quieter, but no less firm. Their eyes swept across the hall, taking in the ranks of Royal Sanctuary guards, Silver Guard commanders, and gilded officials lining the sides of the throne room.
The chamber was bright—light pouring in through stained glass windows high above—but the tension was thick enough to choke.
At the center of the hall, atop a long velvet runner, lay a closed casket, simple and dark, framed in iron. It sat like a sentence yet to be read.
At the far end, upon his throne of stone and gold, sat King Durren.
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the armrests, fingers steepled. His gaze was cold, assessing.
He didn't greet them. Only asked, voice clear but distant:
"Do you know why you're here?"
Dyeva did not slow her stride.
Her voice, when it came, was low. Calm. Controlled.
"Let me see the body."
A stir swept through the nobles.
One man stepped forward sharply—Sir Alden, commander of the Royal Sanctuary. His white cloak trailed behind polished armor as he blocked her path.
"Archon," he said sharply, "the king demands an answer. You will respect his authority."
She didn't stop.
Didn't raise her voice.
Didn't flinch.
Her gaze simply shifted toward him.
A single glance.
And that was enough.
Alden's breath caught. His eyes locked with hers—and something primal recoiled. The air around her felt colder. He hadn't felt this kind of pressure since the days of the war. Not magic—no spell or curse. Just presence. Will.
His hand went instinctively to the hilt of his sword, but it shook. A bead of sweat slid down his temple.
"Y-You mad witch," he muttered. "How dare you...?"
Dyeva brushed past him.
She reached the casket in silence. Her fingers hovered just above the lid for a moment. The entire chamber seemed to hold its breath.
Then she opened it.
The lid creaked. Echoed. Stopped.
Silence descended.
Not a whisper. Not a breath.
Runa's hand trembled.
Yvette closed her eyes.
Ourri's fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white. His gaze locked to the floor, unmoving.
Dyeva looked down into the casket.
No expression crossed her face.
She let the silence stretch long enough that the king was forced to fill it.
"You have your answer," King Durren said finally, his voice sharper now. "Your guild is to be disbanded. You, Dyeva, are to be arrested and held accountable. The Golden Sun's assets will be seized. Its members—exiled."
He didn't ask. He didn't wait for questions.
He didn't even look at the body.
Dyeva's hands slowly closed the lid.
Then she turned.
Her voice did not rise, but it cut clean through the air.
"So this is the judgment you've chosen."
The king's lip curled.
"Guards. Take her."
Swords unsheathed. Armor clanked. Dozens of soldiers began to close in.
But Dyeva did not step back.
She raised her staff—and in a heartbeat, the air erupted with arcane force.
A pillar of crimson energy burst through the ceiling, shattering glass and blowing open the rooftop dome. The light shot into the heavens—a brilliant flare of defiance, a signal. The stone around the chamber cracked, and the guards were thrown backward by the sheer force of it.
Blinded by red light, the court scattered in chaos.
Some fell. Others shouted spells. Shields were raised. The king was hurriedly dragged behind protective wards. The Silver Guard lunged forward to seize her.
But Dyeva had already turned.
"Runa," she called calmly.
Runa's eyes widened. She reached into her robes and pulled out a folded parchment—then ripped it cleanly in half.
A brilliant teleportation circle bloomed beneath her feet, stretching outward and enveloping Yvette and Ourri as well.
Light consumed them
And in a flash—they were gone.
Dyeva stood alone.
She didn't resist as the Silver Guards closed in around her, weapons drawn. She let the staff slip from her fingers. It clattered on the marble.
Cold iron shackles snapped around her wrists.
She didn't resist.
She didn't speak.
Her head remained high.
Her eyes did not waver.
And though her hands were bound, and the hall around her cracked and scorched from her spell—
Dyeva looked like the only one in the room who still held power.
Because in her silence… was wrath.
Because in her grief… was judgment.
And high above the city, the sky burned red.