The room was steeped in silence, broken only by the creak of soldiers' boots as they delivered reports.
King Aserion stood with arms crossed, tense, studying a map of the continent. After a long pause, he pointed to a route marked toward Mitivél.
"Lyn Bravell, you will be our envoy."
Lyn, standing to Kaellia's right, stepped forward and gave a short bow.
She glanced at Kaellia, who offered a gentle smile in return.
Despite her humble posture, there was steel in Lyn's gaze. Her healer's robes still bore traces of exhaustion from her last mission.
"As you wish, Your Majesty."
"I've chosen someone capable to escort you," Aserion continued, turning toward a man approaching through the main gates.
The ground seemed to tremble under his heavy steps.
His dark armor, flecked with rust and dried blood, did little to hide the manic grin on his face.
His disheveled hair and unblinking eyes gave him a… predatory air.
"Tarion," one of the nobles murmured under their breath. "The Mad Dog."
Tarion approached with a relaxed, almost mocking stride.
"Heard it was a risky mission, so I came running," he said, scratching his chin.
"But I think I'm late… Hope someone at least tries to kill us on the way." He grinned, sauntering toward Lyn.
Lyn glanced at him but said nothing, offering only a slight, respectful bow.
She stood and walked to the door.
At dawn, the two set off on horseback.
---
Five days later…
The towers of Mitivél loomed in the distance, shrouded in silvery mist.
The city was flanked by wide rivers and elegant walls, reflecting its refined architecture.
Lyn adjusted her cloak, the crest of her house subtly embroidered: a silver wolf beneath the moon—the symbol of the Bravell, an ancient noble family of Bravante.
She didn't flaunt it, but her posture spoke louder than any crest.
Spine straight, movements precise, gaze sharp. She was a noble, and that was enough.
At the entrance, two guards inspected their documents. One frowned.
"The delegation from Bravante… Understood. But the king is occupied with an urgent matter at the moment."
Lyn nodded, maintaining her composure.
"We can wait. I understand priorities."
They were led to an antechamber in the palace, adorned with elegant tapestries and the distant sound of string music echoing through marble corridors.
After nearly an hour, a man with silver hair and weary eyes entered.
He wore robes with golden insignias: a royal advisor.
"Lady Bravell. Sir Tarion. The king can see you now. My apologies for the delay."
Tarion merely shrugged. Lyn, with grace, offered a faint smile.
"Thank you for your consideration."
She set her empty teacup on the table before her.
---
In the throne room, King Caelan Vorin awaited them.
Unlike Aserion, Caelan was reserved. His steady eyes and neatly trimmed beard made him seem more strategist than monarch.
"I received Aserion's letter," he began, cutting to the point. "I recognize the weight of this request."
Lyn inclined her head.
"Bravante deeply values its alliance with Mitivél.
This delegation comes out of necessity, not weakness. The reports about the demons…"
"Yes. I read them carefully."
Caelan clasped his hands.
"You did well to deliver the letter. Rest in the palace tonight. I'll respond to it by evening."
Lyn nodded respectfully. Tarion merely rolled his shoulder, already eyeing the door.
---
Hours later…
King Caelan met with three figures in a private chamber: his royal advisor, the war marshal, and a veteran noble.
Aserion's letter lay open on the table. Maps covered the rest, marked in black ink—potential demon invasion points.
"If what Aserion says is true," the marshal said, "this isn't a typical incursion. It's an organized march. As if something is… guiding the demons."
"They mention some information," the advisor added. "And… artifacts of the Herald."
Caelan didn't respond immediately. He rose and walked to a tall window overlooking Mitivél's fields.
The wind stirred his dark blue cloak.
"I know someone who'd be eager to help," he said at last. A faint smile curved his lips, but his eyes were grim.
"You'll summon him?" the noble asked cautiously.
Caelan's smile was his only reply.
---
Meanwhile, in the palace…
Soft evening light filtered through linen curtains in the royal suite.
Jin woke with a start, gasping—the ornate stone ceiling made no sense.
It was clean. The bed was too soft. And the smell… not sulfur, not blood.
Lavender.
Sitting up, panting, he looked around, disoriented.
His hands trembled.
Thoughts fell like stones into a bottomless well—fragmented memories, voices, pain.
Lyssandrel sat in an armchair nearby, silent.
Her long braids hung loose. For the first time, she seemed… light. But tired.
"Do you know where you are?" she asked softly.
Jin nodded once, still lost in the room. The queen raised an eyebrow.
"Are you in pain?"
"…Yes… No… Hard to tell."
It was difficult to say if it was physical, emotional, or just accumulated exhaustion. Likely all three.
Minutes later, maids entered with steaming trays.
Soup, fresh bread, meats in sauce.
Jin stared at the food like it was a miracle. He hesitated for a moment.
He didn't speak.
He just ate.
Voraciously.
Like he was fighting time itself.
Lyssandrel watched, her eyes gleaming with quiet joy. It was the first time in weeks she'd seen something resembling life in him.
But Jin didn't smile. Didn't laugh. Just chewed.
---
The king's summons came shortly after the meal.
Mitivél's great hall was a strange contrast: white, gold, serene.
It clashed with the unsettling presence Jin exuded, even in silence.
He stood beside Lyssandrel, facing King Caelan without bowing, without hesitation. Just stood there, still.
"Insolent," one noble muttered, too loudly.
Jin glanced at him, confused, as if unsure why he was annoyed.
Lyssandrel let out a genuine laugh that echoed through the hall. She laughed hard, until her eyes watered.
"Never seen you make that face, Caelan!" she said, pointing at the king. "Look at you… almost scared."
The king sighed, half-smiling, shaking his head.
"You never change…" Then he looked at Jin. "We've provided shelter and care for the boy. Now, we want the story."
Lyssandrel composed herself, wiping her eyes, but kept her tone casual.
"Jin was taken to a subspace by Lorn, a demon… one of Mizuto's pawns. He invaded the capital while Aserion and I were away. I learned of it through Saphira, who begged us to go after him. Aserion assembled an army, but… something went wrong. He tried to kill Jin. So I went back alone to retrieve him."
The hall fell silent.
"That's why we're here. That's what happened."
Caelan studied Jin for a moment. There was something unsettling in his gaze—not fear. Curiosity.
"Leave us," Caelan said. "I wish to speak with your queen."
Jin didn't argue. He simply left.
---
The city was alive.
Stalls open, the metallic clang of tools being forged in the distance, sweet aromas mingling with iron, leather, and fresh wood.
People laughed, talked, ran.
A fruit vendor smiled as Jin passed.
"Want a sample?" she said, offering a carefully cut piece of peach.
Jin hesitated, but the woman only smiled. "You look hungry, lad."
He accepted with a slight nod and noticed—their gazes didn't shy away from him.
On the contrary.
People greeted him naturally.
An elderly man nodded, two soldiers stepped aside without fear, and a small child ran up to him, followed by three others.
"Uncle! So cool, you're missing an arm!" the smallest said, eyes sparkling as if seeing a legend. "How'd you lose it?"
Jin blinked, stunned. The naturalness… the lack of fear. None of them called him a monster.
"I'm suppressing your aura," Bouros murmured in his mind.
"Would've been chaos if you walked around as usual. Panic, screams, guards fainting… tedious stuff. This also protects the queen's position."
Jin glanced sideways, suspicious.
"Kind of you."
Bouros shrugged.
"Not for you."
One child tugged at Jin's sleeve, on the side where his arm was missing.
"Come on, uncle, tell us! Was it an epic fight?"
Jin looked at the child. For a moment, he pictured himself there—small, curious, before everything happened. Before the deaths, the pain, the pacts.
"You could try… socializing," Bouros muttered, sarcastic. "You know… smiling. Humans like that."
Jin sighed. He ruffled the child's hair lightly, drawing an even bigger smile.
"It was fighting a really strong demon," he said in a calm, almost light voice, with a faint smile.
The children cheered as if he'd just recounted a legendary feat.
Jin stayed, sharing bits of his battle against the giant-sword warrior…
And for a second—a brief second—Jin let himself feel something lighter. Something almost human.
---
In the king's private chamber, Lyssandrel sipped tea she'd prepared herself—an old tradition among friends.
"I already knew about the demon advance," she said. "Even before retrieving Jin. I was just waiting for the right moment to return."
"Aserion's letter was… concerning," Caelan murmured, twirling a ring on his finger. "He's panicking."
"He's always been too nervous for pressure," Lyssandrel remarked with a smile.
"So you want help?"
"Yes. And before you say you can't, I'm asking as a friend. Not as a queen."
Caelan studied her for a moment. Then he smirked.
"I'll send someone."
"One?" Lyssandrel raised an eyebrow. "Caelan… this isn't a bandit rebellion. It's a demonic march."
"I know."
He stood and walked to a stained-glass window depicting a warrior.
"Don't underestimate the person I'm sending… They may not be stronger than you… but I can assure you: they're stronger than Aserion."
Lyssandrel let out a brief, nostalgic laugh.
"If you say so…"
---
The next day, in the palace stables…
Lyn adjusted her horse's saddle while Tarion stood with arms crossed, bored.
"How much longer?" he grumbled.
Before Lyn could reply, a young man came running—or rather, stumbling—leaping from a still-moving cart.
He nearly faceplanted in the mud but regained balance with an awkward spin.
"I'M HERE!" he shouted, raising a hand as if answering a roll call.
He froze for a moment… then his eyes widened, realizing everyone was staring.
"I mean… hi," he said softly, embarrassed.
He adjusted his cloak, brushed dust off his simple clothes, and grinned broadly, as if nothing had happened.
His messy white hair fluttered in the wind, and a sword wrapped in cloth swung on his back.
Despite his clumsy appearance, his body bore old scars, hinting at more than met the eye.
Neith strode toward them, still panting and red with embarrassment.
"So… the advisor said to come quick, and I took that real seriously… The cart was moving, and I thought, 'I'll jump now!' But then…"
He gestured wildly, trying to explain, then froze.
"You're really pretty," he blurted, looking at Lyn with the sincerity of a child praising a fairy.
Silence.
Tarion raised an eyebrow.
Lyn just blinked, unsure how to respond.
"I mean… just an observation! Not creepy!" Neith stammered, waving his hands. "Technical comment! Thought it was polite to say!"
"Who's this?" Tarion asked, frowning.
"The reinforcement," the royal advisor said, appearing behind them, stifling a sigh. "Sent by the king."
Lyn studied him closely.
There was something disarming about the boy.
An absurd, almost foolish lightness.
But when their eyes met for a split second, a strange chill ran down her spine.
He smiled, less red now.
"Call me Neith! Or give me a nickname if you want!"
"We're screwed," Tarion muttered, turning away.
And the three set off for Bravante.
Jin and Lyssandrel remained in Mitivél. The war hadn't yet begun.
But the pieces were moving.