Three days had passed since Isolde.
Three days of Arthur growing stronger, his body finally whole, his confidence restored even without the System. He'd spent those days reestablishing his authority, managing the kingdom, and carefully balancing the delicate dynamics of his relationships.
But Beatrice had been absent, locked in her tower, consumed by research.
Now, as dawn broke over Lyranth, Arthur stood on his balcony, testing his mortal strength with practice swings of a mundane blade. He was faster than before the System, stronger from real training, but undeniably human. His muscles moved with fluid grace, sweat glistening on his bare chest in the morning sun.
The door burst open with such force it slammed against the wall. Beatrice stood there, wild-eyed, her hair in complete disarray, her mage robes singed and stained with unknown substances. Dark circles rimmed her eyes, but those eyes—they blazed with triumph and something else. Desperation.
