That night, neither of them knew their next meeting would come seven years later.

And the world, like them, turned upside down.

Golden wheat like poured sunlight. A sea cut from diamonds. Laughter bursting in a clay-walled yard. All the bright, supposed-forever things vanished. Only ruins, charred soil, wreckage sprawled.

Blood dried and blood still slick painted the earth in a stolen shade, and that invisible dye streaked every living face.

The Chaos Uprising.

Even Menglan, who drifted through time like a leaf on a current, felt her smile thin. Levity drained; gravity and sternness settled in. So much that on the day they met again, Varie’s first words were, “You look old.”

The jab was familiar. Emotion rose first; a tiny curve returned to Menglan’s lips, long-missed.

Seven years of campaigns. Even with full evacuations, they couldn’t outrun Chaos’s advance.

A starved front left no room for reunions, even though that night she had pressed the symbiotic arm sigil onto her chest, marking each other’s belonging.

No honeymoon. Almost no talking. Even this once-in-seven-years meeting refused romance.

Because they weren’t alone. A figure in heavy plate stood between them, face hidden, his presence dousing seven years of kindled sparks.

“Humans, Elves, Orcs—our alliance will bring hope to the Sumerland Continent.”

The voice came muffled and neutral. His hand reached between them. He seemed not to notice Menglan’s displeasure flare when he said “Orcs,” a slur to some ears.

Once, Varie would’ve exploded. Now, she didn’t. She beat Menglan to it, set her hand atop the armored palm, and spoke steady.

“Please call us the Nacha Tribe, king of Humans.”

It was a simple correction. No savagery, no hot disrespect. It carried a leader’s weight and calm. It left Menglan blinking.

After a breath, she sighed. Warmth and wistfulness colored her eyes as she looked at the once-prickly Lionheart Hero.

You’ve changed too, Varie.

Yes. Under the shadow smothering all Sumerland, Menglan had to change.

Seven years, to a First Generation, are a blink. Yet in that single blink she lost more than the sum of her former life. She had to hide the approachable self, and don the mask that fit the word Queen.

Too many partings. Too much duty. Too many wounds that would never knit.

And yet, in the unreasoning ruin and pain, one thread brought her a small stillness: knowing she wasn’t the only one who must become hope itself, whose name alone should settle her people’s hearts.

The weight on her chest eased. Menglan said nothing more. She placed her hand on Varie’s.

They didn’t know it then. This moment would be sung for a thousand years by bards: three hands stacked, the fiercest turn in the legend of the Chaos Uprising, the mark of the day the three armies allied and the living host turned from defense to attack.

They weren’t bards from the future. Dawn of victory was still a distant wish. They weren’t even sure they’d have anything left after the next battle.

Even so, through the warmth pulsing from palm to palm, Menglan felt…an emotion she stood for, yet had never let herself feel.

Peace of mind.

So she gently tightened her grip on Varie’s hand, and made a quiet vow in her heart.

This time, she wouldn’t be parted from her little lion.

“Don’t yank both ends when you tie a scarf. You trying to strangle yourself, idiot?”

The tone held a touch of exasperation. Her hands moved with tender indulgence.

Menglan sat by the campfire at a temporary frontline camp. Varie sat beside her, unwrapped the soft scarf from Menglan’s neck, folded it, then slipped her arms around that swan neck. She lifted Menglan’s gold hair, re-tied the scarf, and muttered, “You don’t know the simplest things. How have you even survived…”

Her breath puffed a pale mist. A lone gray snowflake spiraled in her exhale, then a passing soldier’s wake whisked it away.

Menglan watched the back fade behind tents. Her head dipped. Her voice was lower than usual.

“Well…San-niang always wrapped it for me.”

Varie’s hands paused.

Only after a while did she ask, “She’s gone too?”

“Mm.”

Last month, a Chaos behemoth dragged Menglan across the field. She reached the other unit later than planned. That night, the casualty list ran longer than usual. On it lay the name of the strict, somewhat old-fashioned woman who had been with her most of her life.

Menglan read it. Numb, she folded the report with San-niang’s name, set it on the table, lay down, and closed her eyes.

Against an enemy that never rests, every second of sleep can decide whether the next fight is your finale. Sleeping was rational. She knew that.

But beside Varie, she lost that ability for a moment. Strength went out of her frame. She leaned lightly into Varie.

“If only…I’d been a little earlier…”

Her teeth pressed her lip. Words refused to continue.

Maybe that was better. Finishing them would only vent meaninglessly.

Endless, unfeeling, deathless—against an army born to deny existence itself, every “great victory” that bards trumpet can only be a pyrrhic heap made of flesh.

She knew that. She knew the Chaos Uprising was, at its core, a duel of spirit—a race between the will to persist and the despair that quits. Lose it, and you fall forever. Even an Elven Queen isn’t exempt.

For anyone in the living host, the fear of losing everything is the engine that keeps them struggling and fighting. It’s a feeling to embrace.

And yet, even knowing—

“It still hurts, doesn’t it.”

Hearing Varie speak the words she couldn’t, Menglan lifted her head, dazed.

Varie looked at the sky. She added nothing, offered no tidy comfort. She just looked out.

Menglan hadn’t guessed the undertone yet. Footsteps not theirs drew close again.

Her heart clenched. She tried to put a little space between them. Before she could rise, Varie’s arm drew her in. Menglan startled.

A Nacha soldier hustled past with arms full of gear. He caught sight of his two highest leaders in a private moment. Shock flew across his face. Then he wrenched his gaze away and fled, leaving an Elven Queen briefly petrified.

“V-Varie! You just—?”

She stammered, rare panic unseating her composure.

The Nacha Tribe prizes honor. A core piece of that is bearing children. Unlike Elves, whose numbers hardly ever dwindle, and unlike Humans, who multiply readily, the Nacha share neither advantage. Their births are scarce. Their population always teeters.

That tradition endured even after the Light Goddess Isylia fell. All the more now, with their numbers halved by the Chaos Uprising.

Nacha people surely don’t want to learn their Lionheart Hero has abandoned that duty. Holding to that thought, Menglan always reined herself in, never showed her bond with Varie before others. That tacit pact—Varie had just broken it.

While she was still stunned, Varie finally drew a full breath. She stopped looking far off and turned to meet Menglan’s eyes.

Her cheeks were flushed.

“Seron—”

The word glittered like gold dust. Heat blossomed in Menglan’s chest. The symbiotic arm sigil carved on her lit, its warmth reaching deep, displacing her fear of loss.

The little lion, who always wore pride like a mane, now held her gently. Resolve shone in her eyes. Her voice was soft.

“Let’s go public.”

—Then I can kiss you in front of the whole world.