Before the fall of Warden's Maw– on that same day, two of the Ten Great Sovereigns were already heading to an immutable future.
In Capril, Atteria's capital, the echoes of this catastrophe would reach the royal palace at a union's most inconvenient hour—a tremor beneath the already unstable foundations of the kingdom.
Atteria was once a proud province of the unified kingdom of Irie, had carved its own destiny, at a great cost, after the bloody civil war split the land.
Where Eiria clung to tradition, ruled by an unbroken royal bloodline that some Atterians envied and others disdained, Atteria seemed to embrace change.
Its government was a delicate, often strained balance of aristocratic lineage, ideals of merit, and an elected Prime Minister, who held equal rank to a duke, representing the people.
Though still revered, the King shared power with the Congress of Aristocrats—a fragile balance, tested constantly by lingering resentments and whispered ambitions, with the Prime Minister at its center.
The Prime Minister, Giovanni Mari, a man from a small town up north in Holy Metzia who had traveled even the distant cities of Hordad, a man known the world over for his fixer persona and wandering tendency, had arrived in Atteria a scholar, a cartographer, and a man with a keen understanding of politics.
Over time, he had risen through the ranks, his intellect and charisma winning over the people. He even earned the respect of the most skeptical aristocrats, although many of them envied him.
He was a paradox. A statesman respected even by foreign rulers, a leader beloved by the people—yet he was not one of them. No matter how much he gave to Atteria, he would always be an outsider, a reminder of the kingdom's fractured past.
But his son…
His son was different.
Ramone Mari was the embodiment of Atteria's ideals, a symbol of merit and progress.
Unlike the aristocrats who inherited their status, he had earned his barony through his own accomplishments, proving that lineage alone did not determine one's worth.
He was everything the kingdom had fought for— nobility shaped by talent rather than birthright.
A Son Caught Between Worlds
Ramone watched the city from the balcony of Capril Academy, the spires of the Congress of Aristocrats' buildings piercing the skyline.
Their whispers, like the wind, carried through the capital, a constant reminder of the old ways they clung to, the traditions of Irie that Atteria claimed they had fought so hard to escape.
He thought of King Masamune, the man who had held the kingdom together for decades, now weakened by age, his once sharp eyes clouded.
The vultures were circling, each noble vying to place their heir on the throne, their polite smiles masking their ambition.
His father was a constant thorn in their side, a reminder that merit, not birth, could shape a kingdom.
King Masamune himself treated Ramone like his own son, though the king only had daughters.
Ramone stared at the city below, a sprawling tapestry of stone and light. Above it all rose the academy—a towering spire of marble and glass—home to the brightest young minds in the kingdom.
Future leaders, artists, alchemists, warriors, and merchants all walked its halls, chasing destinies yet unwritten.
Or—written.
Yet Ramone did not wish to be any of those things. He felt the weight of expectation, the invisible chains of duty, pressing down on him.
He exhaled, watching the smoke curl from the city's chimneys, a silent testament to the lives he felt so distant from.
He had grown up in these streets, among commoners and aristocrats alike, his laughter echoing in the crowded markets and his footsteps familiar in the grand hall.
Unlike his father, he was not seen as an outsider. He was one of them—perhaps even their future king.
And that was the problem.
Ramone had no interest in the throne.
He admired his father, he respected the king and the weight of duty, but the thought of ruling filled him with a suffocating dread.
He wanted to be an explorer or a great wanderer, like the men he had heard about in stories, like his father was before settling in Atteria.
To explore forgotten ruins of the world, to traverse underground labyrinths, to find the city in the sky and unravel vast mysteries left behind by ancient mages, said to be capable of manipulating the very fabric of reality, that was his dream.
But it seemed fate had other plans.
His father's influence and his own potential made him a threat to the aristocracy, and now, with King Masamune's failing health, the pressure to take up a role in the kingdom was growing unbearable.
A voice interrupted his thoughts—soft, yet firm.
"You look troubled, old friend."
Ramone turned to see Her Highness, Princess Akira Amano, one of his closest friends.
Unlike most of the aristocrats, she carried herself with a quiet intelligence rather than arrogance, her eyes reflecting a kind of clarity Ramone rarely saw in anyone anymore—a clarity that came from knowing exactly what your future was supposed to look like, even if you didn't want it.
As the eldest daughter of King Masamune and the queen whom many believed held more control over the Congress than half the dukes put together, Akira had been raised in the heart of a storm.
"I'm always troubled," Ramone replied dryly, his gaze returning to the city.
"More than usual," she noted, stepping beside him.
Her gaze flickered toward the distant palace, its golden spires glinting in the afternoon sun. "Dad summoned you, didn't he? Again?"
Ramone sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "This morning. He keeps trying to convince me that my place is here, in the capital. It makes my head hurt. "
"I enjoy the cyclical weather of the All-Season-Zone, but that's the only thing I like about being in the capital," he added, turning away from the city, now facing the training grounds in the middle of the academy's courtyard.
"That's one thing we can agree on," she nodded, crossing her arms as she followed behind.
"But you can't keep avoiding this, Ramone. The Aristocrats are turning against your family, their whispers growing louder by the day. If Dad names you his successor, you won't just be fighting politics. You'll be fighting history itself."
Ramone shook his head.
"The aristocrats hate me already, even your mother. But if the old man names me as his successor, they'll have no choice but to accept it. They can't pretend the Irie Civil War was about upward mobility and then fight it when a commoner rises to the throne."
Akira arched an eyebrow.
"You're implying it wasn't?"
"Well, my father told me otherwise. And he was a scholar at Ashura Grando," he admitted. "What can I say, I believe him."
"You'd take a Metzian's word over centuries of Atterian history?" Akira smirked.
Ramone shrugged exaggeratedly.
"Don't tell anybody else. It would look terrible on our dear Prime Minister."
She laughed softly, shaking her head.
"So, do you actually have a plan, or are you just counting on fate to bail you out?"
"I always have a plan. And if I don't—well, I'll flip my lucky coin."
Akira rolled her eyes.
"That's not a plan. That's gambling."
"Depends on who you ask." Ramone fought back a smirk.
"But if it comes down to it, I'll just make a tactical retreat—maybe to Holy Metzia. Heard the weather's nice this time of year."
"Or maybe we can get married. I'll rule in your stead if you're not up for it." Akira added jokingly, a small smile playing on her lips.
She had been promised to someone—someone powerful. Someone with the favor of nobles, the ambition of a king, and the kind of spotless legacy Ramone could never match.
Though neither of them mentioned his name, the tension he brought into every room lingered like smoke. Ramone hated that man almost as much as he pitied her.
And Akira? She bore the arrangement like a soldier carrying a shield too heavy for the battlefield.
She didn't speak against it, not openly—but there were moments, small cracks in her voice or subtle silences, that told Ramone more than any confession ever could.
Ramone's smirk faded as his gaze drifted to the grass, lost in thought. The joke hung in the air, unacknowledged—a quiet reminder of the burden he carried.
Akira watched him for a moment before exhaling. "Alright then," she said, shifting her stance, determination flashing in her eyes. "Let's have a duel. It'll clear your head."
Ramone finally looked at her, a flicker of life in his eyes. "Let's do it."
She blinked, as if surprised he took her seriously. Then, after a moment, she chuckled.
"I was joking," she admitted, voice softening. "I just wanted to see you smile, even if only for a moment. "
Ramone grinned, the first sign of genuine amusement he'd shown all morning.
"Then let me teach you a few mage battle techniques instead. A fair trade, don't you think?"
"Okay, but you know my ability is mainly for defen...."
Before Akira could finish, a sharp clang rang out.
A figure in full fencing gear stepped onto the training grounds, drawing immediate attention. The rhythmic clang of practice blades ceased, replaced by a hushed anticipation.
The stranger's black fencing mask concealed their face entirely, their posture rigid and focused.
Their uniform was high-quality but devoid of insignias, making it impossible to discern their affiliation. The air grew tense, the unspoken question hanging heavy: who was this intruder?
The masked individual strode forward, stopping just short of Ramone.
"You are Ramone, I take it. Son of Giovanni Mari-Sensei?" they said, their voice slightly distorted by the helm, a low, almost metallic timbre.
"I'll take you up on that duel."
Ramone raised an eyebrow, a flicker of annoyance mixing with curiosity. Bold.
Akira leaned in, whispering, "Huh? Sensei? Who the hell is that?"
"No idea," Ramone muttered back, then addressed the challenger, his voice laced with a hint of challenge. "And if I refuse?"
The masked opponent tilted their head slightly, a subtle movement that conveyed a clear message.
"Then your reputation is weaker than I thought."
Gasps rippled through the onlookers, a collective intake of breath.
Ramone sighed, the familiar weight of expectation settling on his shoulders.
Why does this always happen?
Ramone rolled his shoulders as he eyed the masked challenger. Something about them felt off—too composed, too deliberate.
He could refuse, of course, but something told him this duel was inevitable.
Still, he had a rule for moments like this.
Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a worn silver coin, its edges smoothed by time.
The faint etchings of a crown on one side and a sword on the other had nearly faded, but he knew them by heart. He ran his thumb over the surface, feeling the familiar grooves.
This coin had been with him for years—a relic from his mom who once told him that luck was just another kind of skill.
He held it up, turning it between his fingers. "If it lands on Crown, I walk. If it lands on Sword, I fight."
Akira groaned.
"Oh, come on, you're really doing this?"
Ramone ignored her, flicking the coin high into the air.
It spun, catching the light, tumbling end over end before landing neatly in his palm.
He slapped it onto the back of his other hand, hesitating just a second longer than usual before lifting his fingers.
Sword.
He huffed out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Guess I'm fighting."
The masked opponent didn't react, standing as still as ever.
Ramone tightened his grip on his practice blade and met their seemingly uninterested gaze. "First to three points."
The challenger nodded.
"No mana or incantations," they added.
Then, without another word, they both took their stance.
The duel began.