The gates of the capital loomed tall, framed by the late afternoon sun. Arasha rode at the head of the caravan as it passed through, the city guards parting immediately at the sight of her Scion insignia—three lightning striking a dragon. Whispers followed her steps, as citizens and traders recognized the famed commander.
But not all greeted her with warmth.
As she dismounted in the upper district, leaving the caravan under the protection of the city garrison, a cluster of nobles intercepted her before she could ascend the marble steps of the Royal Court Hall.
"Commander Arasha," sneered one, a rotund man dressed in layers of indigo brocade. "Storming into the capital like a conquering warlord? Have you no respect for the royal court's protocols?"
Another—sharp-eyed, fingers gloved in imported lace—added with a sneer,
"You presume too much, Commander. Barging in to see the Royal Advisor as though she were your personal confidante? The Scion Order is not above the court's channels."
Arasha halted, dust brushing from her cloak as she slowly turned to face them. The wind caught strands of her hair, the light catching the burned-in crest faintly glowing at her wrist.
"And you presume too little," she said coolly. "If ensuring the safety of the people, dismantling a noble-led conspiracy, and quelling a pandemic aren't grounds to consult the Royal Advisor directly, then perhaps you should revisit your oaths to the kingdom."
Gasps murmured through the onlookers, and the nobles bristled—but Arasha lifted a scroll stamped with her command sigil and unfurled it with deliberate slowness.
"By the authority granted to the Scion Commander by Royal Decree, I am entitled to seek the counsel of the royal court when matters threaten the kingdom's safety. I will use that authority. Again. And again. As needed."
A tense silence followed—until a strong, clear voice echoed from above the steps:
"And she has every right to."
Linalee, the Royal Advisor herself, stood at the top landing, dressed in court robes lined with moon-thread. Her eyes, sharp as winter, swept over the gathered nobles with cool disapproval.
"You question the Commander's use of privilege, but forget she's the reason the capital still stands." Her voice hardened. "You forget too quickly how much you owe her."
The nobles quickly bowed their heads, muttering half-hearted apologies as Linalee extended her hand toward Arasha.
"Come, Commander. We have much to discuss."
Arasha inclined her head to the stunned nobles, her face unreadable, and ascended the stairs. With each step, the tension melted behind her like mist in sunlight.
Inside, away from prying eyes, Linalee led her into the Soundless Library, a sanctum bound by powerful magic where no whisper escaped. Only once the door sealed did Linalee let out a tired breath.
"You could have let the guard deliver your request."
Arasha allowed herself a small smile.
"I thought showing up in person would be faster."
Linalee chuckled softly. "You've been hanging around Garran too long."
But then her tone shifted, subtle and serious.
"You're not here just to be seen. What's troubling you?"
Arasha's smile faded. She reached into her satchel, pulled out the sketched crest of twisted fate she'd copied from Leo's mark, and placed it before Linalee.
"I need to know if this has ever appeared in any of your records… and if there's a way to protect someone bearing it."
Linalee's eyes narrowed as she took the sketch, the magic wards of the library pulsing faintly in response.
"This mark… I've seen references. Old ones. Buried in records of soul-binders and dimensional anomalies…" She looked up. "You think this is connected to the Rift cults?"
Arasha nodded slowly.
"I hope not, but my guts tell me otherwise. Still, this one—it's on an infant. And I need a way to make sure it never blossoms into what it was meant to."
Linalee nodded, the sketch already glowing faintly in her hands.
"Then we'll begin. Tonight."
****
For nearly a week, the Soundless Library had become Arasha and Linalee's haven—and prison. Scrolls, tomes, grimoires, and relics lay scattered across the floating crystal desks, pages of ancient languages unfolding under moonlight and star-mapped charts.
But no solution, no counter to the twisted crest or its origin, had yet been found.
At dawn on the seventh day, a royal summons arrived—sealed in the King's personal gold-stamped sigil.
Arasha changed into her formal Scion robes and made her way through the fortified royal corridors, where enchanted guards nodded at her with deep respect.
She was led not to the throne room—but to the private royal study, a secluded chamber woven with sigils of warding, anti-scrying glyphs, and faintly humming protective talismans. The polished floor bore no dust, and the fireplace crackled with flame-blue mana.
As she entered, she bowed low with crisp grace.
"Your Majesty."
But King Alight, still young in years but matured by the weight of the crown, rose from his velvet-backed chair with a gentle smile and waved a hand.
"Arasha. Enough of that. It's been too long."
Arasha straightened, her expression softening.
"It truly has. We've both been swallowed by duties… but that's the cost of wanting a better world, isn't it?"
The King chuckled and motioned for her to sit across from him at a low polished tea table. His eyes, once bright with youth, were now shadowed with sleeplessness and grief—but they still held warmth.
"I owe you, you know," he said, pouring them both a cup of tea steeped with black lotus and honeyroot. "If not for your unrelenting truth… I would still be blind, surrounded by vipers smiling with silver tongues."
Arasha accepted the cup with both hands and bowed her head briefly.
"The steps forward were yours, Alight. I merely pointed to the rot. It took your courage to uproot it."
Alight laughed, a deep, genuine sound that briefly chased the weight from his shoulders.
"You're too humble. The entire realm speaks of you now like some myth made flesh—Arasha, Flame of the Scion Order, Bane of Riftspawn, Terror of Corrupt Lords."
She chuckled dryly.
"Titles don't ease a burden. They just shift how you carry it."
Alight sighed and leaned back, the firelight flickering against the lenses of his reading glasses, which he'd forgotten to remove.
"Exactly why I called for you. I missed speaking like this… just truth, between two people who understand what it means to bleed for others."
Arasha studied his face—the faint tension in his jaw, the pinch of exhaustion near his eyes.
"You've grown, Alight," she said gently. "You're not the prince I once protected. You're a king now. A weary, noble one. And… yes, it's been too long since we unwound."
Alight leaned forward slightly, his voice quieter.
"Do you ever wonder if we've given up too much of ourselves?"
Arasha didn't answer at first. She let the question settle like dust.
Then softly, she said,
"Every night. And still, every morning, I wake… and give what's left."
Their eyes met—and in that silence was a deep, unsaid bond. Two leaders. Two survivors. Wounded but unbroken.
Alight reached into his desk and pulled out a folded map etched with subtle glyphs.
"Before we go back to the weight of the world… there's something I want to show you. A place no one remembers anymore. I think… it might hold more about the crest. I've kept it hidden until I knew I could trust someone to investigate."
Arasha leaned closer, her eyes narrowing in focus.
"Where is it?"
He smiled, but it was sad.
"Where the stars fall, and time runs strange—The Hollow Valley. You'll need more than swords to survive it."
Arasha took a deep breath.
"Then I suppose I better pack a few more prayers."
****
As Arasha gently folded the map of the Hollow Valley, she met King Alight's gaze once more. The fire in the hearth had dimmed, but the light in his eyes remained steady.
She stood, her posture straight despite the lingering pain in her ribs.
"Thank you," she said, voice clear and firm. "For trusting me. For all of this."
Then, with softened expression, she added,
"And Alight… you've already done better than your father. You see your people, you act for them, and you shoulder the burden instead of hiding behind titles and councils. Take pride in that. And when it gets heavy again, lean on the hands offered to you."
The King looked as though something inside him uncoiled at her words. His shoulders relaxed.
"You always know what to say," he replied with a tired smile. "Thank you, Arasha."
They exchanged no more words, only a silent mutual respect as Alight saw her to the doors of his study himself, despite the protests of his aides. The sight caused whispers in the corridor, but neither paid them any mind.
****
Arasha made her way through the palace until she reached Linalee's chambers, where the royal advisor had already anticipated her arrival.
Books were piled on every table. Runes sparked faintly in the air. Linalee, as sharp as ever in her long dark robes and starlit circlet, greeted Arasha with an exhausted, curious look.
"I heard you had a private audience," she said, setting down a scroll. "I assume it wasn't just tea and pleasantries."
Arasha smirked slightly and handed over the folded parchment Alight had shown her. Linalee read swiftly, her fingers twitching at the margins of the map as she connected patterns only a mage of her caliber could decipher.
"The Hollow Valley..." Linalee murmured. "Time-touched and isolated... not ideal for someone still recovering from cursed injuries."
"You're going to say no," Arasha said, almost resigned.
"I'm going to say 'not yet.'" Linalee met her eyes. "Let me do the scouting. I'll consult some of my former colleagues from the Magic Tower—those who haven't gone mad or cynical yet. We'll see what can be gathered before we risk sending you to a place where reality bends and memory can unravel."
Arasha considered arguing—but the truth of Linalee's worry was written in every crease of her tired eyes. She nodded slowly.
"All right. I'll return to the Scion Hold and wait for your signal."
"Good. Rest, Arasha. Your body's still recovering. Let your people see their commander whole again."
****
Arasha was on her way toward the inner gates when a familiar voice called out behind her.
"Commander! Wait!"
She turned to see Agustus, one of Alight's most reliable aides, trotting toward her with a heavy scroll pouch and a grin half-hidden behind berry-stained teeth.
"From His Majesty," Agustus puffed, handing her a sealed parchment. "Finalized just this morning. The new fund allocations for the Scion Order starting next month."
Arasha opened the scroll. Her eyes scanned the breakdown—supplies, logistics, emergency requisitions…
It was a fortune, by wartime standards. Enough to support expansion and solidify long-range operations for years.
"You really fought for this?" she asked, surprised.
Agustus groaned, stretching his back.
"Pulled every string I could find, twisted every noble arm I was allowed to. The old rats fought it hard, but the Scion Order earned this tenfold. They couldn't deny it forever."
Arasha gave a rare, true smile and rolled the scroll closed.
"Then thank you. But really, Agustus—those popcorn berries are going to turn your teeth purple if you keep sneaking them during work."
Agustus grinned wide, revealing exactly that.
"Can't help it. You introduced me to them. They're addictive."
"That was for a festival, not official council meetings."
"Festival or council, I serve with flavor," he quipped with a salute.
Arasha let out a short laugh, nodded her thanks again, and finally turned her horse back toward the gates.
The capital's spires soon disappeared behind her. Arasha rode ahead of the merchant caravan she'd promised to escort, the fresh wind catching at the edges of her cloak.
She felt the weight of everything again—Leo's twisted fate crest, the Hollow Valley's secrets, Linalee's plans, and Alight's growing burden—but beneath it all, for the first time in weeks, she also felt the faintest flicker of hope.
Her hands gripped the reins tightly.
"I will be ready," she whispered to herself, eyes on the road ahead. "No matter what it costs."
****
The meadow was painted silver beneath the moonlight, gentle winds swaying the tall grass like waves in a forgotten sea.
Arasha sat alone by her campfire, her horse grazing nearby, and her cloak drawn close against the chill.
Exhaustion eventually won. With the stars as her roof and the scent of wildflowers in the air, she lay down in the grass and closed her eyes.
Sleep took her faster than she expected—and deep.
She was falling again.
That familiar, soundless descent through light and shadow. Cold air rushing past, sky above, ground below—her body rapidly falling.
And again, just before she hit the unseen bottom, arms wrapped around her.
A man—young, warm, trembling—caught her.
"Don't go—please, don't go…"
His words were muffled, lost as the world grew dim and she slipped away in his grasp.
But the dream didn't end.
It shifted.
The light changed, golden and soft. The air was warm, like spring. She stood in a field of sun-drenched blossoms. And then—he was there again.
Older, now. A little taller. A scar marked his brow, and silver threaded the edges of his dark hair. But his eyes—the color of twilight storms—were unmistakably his.
And they were full of tears.
"Arasha…"
His voice cracked, and before she could speak, he ran to her, arms wrapping tightly around her as if afraid she would vanish again.
"I found you," he breathed. "I finally found you… So wait for me. Just a little longer. I promise—I'll come to you soon."
She tried to ask who he was.
Tried to ask why he looked at her like she meant the world.
But then, the dream unraveled.
****
Arasha sat up with a sharp breath. Dew clung to her lashes, her chest rose and fell too quickly, and for a moment—just a moment—she wasn't sure if she had been dreaming at all.
The fire had long died out. Birds had begun to sing. The horizon glowed amber, the sun slowly cresting over the distant trees.
She pressed a hand to her chest. Her heartbeat echoed in her ears.
"Who are you…" she murmured aloud, her voice rough with sleep, "…and why do you look at me like that?"
The dream clung to her skin like mist, refusing to lift even as the sun chased away the darkness.
A part of her wanted to go back. To sleep again. To see that man once more.
But duty never waited.
She slowly stood, folded her cloak, and poured a few drops of Leta's invigorating tonic into her canteen. After packing up the camp, she looked once more at the sky that had cradled her sleep.
"Whoever you are," she whispered, mounting her horse, "I hope you finally get what you wish."
Then she nudged her steed forward and began the long ride back to Scion Hold—the echo of the dream still haunting the quiet strength in her gaze.