Since the night when Berlik’s second young master, Kabos, announced at a banquet that the Elves would go to war with humans, two months had turned like calendar pages.

Months flashed by like a flock of migrating birds. At first, the empire’s common crowd wavered, half-believing and half-doubting his words.

Then the doubt cracked like frost on stone. The northern city wall was attacked and fell, and a mysterious garrison appeared far out along the border.

That sight was a seal pressed into wax. No one questioned Kabos anymore. The only debate left was why the other side struck without warning.

Most citizens accepted his reason. The Elven Empress had never forgiven Emperor Belior for stealing the Elven bloodline.

Hearing the royal house flaunted that golden-haired legacy and ran wild while she slept, she felt humiliated. She swore to cleanse the empire’s high table and reclaim what was theirs.

The well-seated residents of Balad thought differently, measuring others by themselves. To them, it was all interest and land.

They claimed the Elven Realm coveted humanity’s broad, fertile soil. Once the Void Rift was handled, they’d invade and enslave, as they themselves had done to other regions.

The two camps argued like thunder rolling across hills. Yet on one point, they moved in step.

Everyone believed the Elven invasion was a foregone conclusion, a nail hammered firm.

Unexpectedly, the bad news carried more than despair and anxiety. It also brought the one thing the empire needed most—peace, fragile as glass.

Facing the Elven Realm’s shadowed hostility, hearts inside the empire quivered like reeds. Yet under that looming storm, a truce formed like frost across a blade.

The reformers, led by the Red Orchid Society, and the regent’s faction under Rockridge set aside their feud. At last, they chose to work together.

First came a softening. The two sides returned to the table, swords sheathed, voices lowered like dusk.

Then came the withdrawal. Troops stationed in Balad and towns nearby were pulled back, sent north to help hold the battered wall.

For those fearing civil war like wildfire in a dry forest, these two acts were good news enough to breathe again.

And the show of sincerity didn’t end there. Through negotiation, both sides reached a rare accord.

They would restart the succession rite of the Sacred Heart.

“Restart” was a polite word. In truth, this was the first time in Sarman Empire history the decision to perform that rite had passed the cabinet.

Since Emperor Belior’s death, the Sacred Heart had lain on a high shelf. It was treated less as a god-gifted weapon, more as a symbol of faith.

It sat in the Sanctum like a star sealed behind marble, untouched to this day. Today, the seal would break. Today, the rite would begin.

The Sanctum, hewn from black and white marble, stood solemn beneath the sun, as if fused with light.

Holy music circled it like swallows. Organ and orchestra rose together, their perfect duet carrying a bright hymn across miles.

The world was told: this moment is sacred, carved in the air like gold leaf.

Yet the singer in front of the Sanctum was not the heir in theory. She was a silver-haired girl.

Skela.

Not King Samir, but a commoner with no tie to Belior’s name, singled out to inherit the Sacred Heart. It was a surprise, like snowfall in summer.

Stranger still, the request came from the regent himself. Rockridge named her openly.

To maximize combat strength for the crisis, the Sacred Heart must go to the strongest of the empire’s youth—Skela, an attribute-less prodigy whose compatibility was off the charts.

At first sound, it was reasonable, like a bridge across a chasm. More importantly, the reformers had no reason to refuse.

By public reports over the years, Skela wasn’t about camps at all. Even ignoring her… unconventional private relationship with Padini’s only daughter, her raw sense of justice fixed her stance.

In truth, most people had already done the math in silence. This justice-blazing girl would likely take up the sacred spear called Judgment.

She would become the next Chief Justice of the High Tribunal, standing like a blade at noon.

Letting her inherit the Sacred Heart was pure gain for the reformers. When the decision passed, supporters felt a stone drop from the chest.

They took it as the regent’s concession. Talk of politics grew more optimistic, faces lit like lanterns in rain.

Yet that optimism didn’t touch the current Chief Justice, Padini.

He stood in the special tier behind Skela, the face of an iceberg, expression bare as winter rock.

No pride for advantage shown. He was a mountain under snow.

Beside him, Sankachi felt a small, sour itch. Padini’s stillness rubbed him the wrong way.

“Congratulations, Chief Justice,” he said, leaning on the rail and looking toward the Sanctum, voice casual, words edged.

“With the Sacred Heart, your son-in-law will soon be the empire’s strongest mage. You could at least look pleased.”

“…”

“Hey now, what’s wrong with your son-in-law?” Sankachi chuckled, cheeks shaking like jelly. “Don’t tell me you still can’t accept that your daughter fell for a woman?”

He laughed and laughed, breath snorting, but drew no answer.

Padini remained that iceberg, eyes on Skela’s back beneath robe and veil, gaze steady as iron.

Feeling he’d bored himself, Sankachi coughed and lifted his chin. “Chief Justice, your attitude is very arrogant.

“The regent trusts you so much he’s handing the Sacred Heart to your son-in-law, yet you look like we owe you money.”

“You have other plans,” Padini said at last, words flat as slate.

“Come on. We’re showing good faith.” Sankachi’s mouth twitched. His small eyes rolled, nearly swallowed by fat. “S-speaking of, why isn’t your daughter here?

“This is her beloved’s most important succession rite. Doesn’t she want to watch?”

Padini finally glanced his way. The cold in that slant of eye made Sankachi’s whole body jolt, like falling into winter water.

“Rockridge isn’t here either.”

“Uh… His Excellency has other affairs. He’ll come when he can. But you needn’t worry. His sincerity is unquestionable.”

“Oh. I see.”

He offered no extra word, no judgment of the thin excuse. He pulled his gaze from Sankachi’s sweating face and took a mithril pocket watch from his coat.

Click—the cover sprang open. The hour hand kissed the sun mark of noon. The second hand ticked on, matching the chant in front of the Sanctum.

The last countdown marched like soldiers to a drum.

Padini spoke again, unexpectedly answering that earlier question.

“You needn’t worry,” he said. “My daughter isn’t here because she’s busy… showing our side’s sincerity.”

“…Huh?”

Sankachi’s mouth sagged. He froze for a few seconds, then panic bubbled in his small eyes like boiling water.

“Wa-wait. What do you mean—”

His shout was drowned a heartbeat later. The holy music crested like a wave, the crowd’s roar surged like wind in pines.

No one heard his rasp. No one saw his fat, short arms flailing, trying to stop the rite before them.

It was too late. His servants were already pushing the pillar-shaped stone key into the Sanctum’s lock.

The decision was set like ink on jade.

The monumental doors groaned, stone upon stone, an ancient note scraped from the earth. Slowly, they opened.

For the first time in ten thousand years, the Sanctum’s interior unfurled like a scroll.

All music and cheering fell away at once, cut like a silk thread.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

A drumbeat replaced everything, striking slow and heavy.

It was the Sacred Heart’s pulse.

On a gray-white dais, a pure white heart beat, each stroke sending ripples through air, like tears falling onto a lake.

It was Emperor Belior’s only relic. It was the most precious gift the gods had set in human hands.

Skela’s prayer faltered. Awe filled her mouth with dryness, and she swallowed like a bird tasting rain.

She wasn’t alone. Everyone felt a terrible pull, a gravity like a storm eye, calling them to claim, to conquer, to make it theirs.

Yet even with her gaze captured by the Sacred Heart, Skela didn’t step forward as the resolution demanded, didn’t enter and fuse.

She bared her teeth instead, and took a step back, holding herself like a cliff against tide.

Her lips rushed into a chant. Hands, joined in prayer, pulled apart. The sigil hidden between them flared to life.

“cala (light!)!”

Blinding light flooded the square. The “clergy” nearest her screamed, voices splitting like dry bamboo.

They were all regent’s men Sankachi had placed to shadow Skela. They had contingency on contingency.

None expected the girl to strike now. They clutched their eyes and crashed down, howling on stone.

In their last milliseconds of sight, one image burned onto their retinas—a figure breaking into the Sanctum for Skela.

A blood-red shadow.

**

“Uh, so… Adelaide’s letter said she’d send me an army, right?”

“Right.”

“So… where’s the army?”

“I am that army.”

“…”

Hazel stared at the golden-haired girl wearing certainty like a crown. Her lip twitched. Her round frames slid down her nose.

They stood in countryside near Balad, empty to the eye. Not far from Hazel’s rock, a small mound rose, its mouth a dark hole.

Noon sunlight couldn’t reach inside. At the deepest edge, faint crimson stained the stone, like dried petals on slate.

Hazel didn’t need to investigate. She knew what waited there. That was why she’d come, her preparations packed tight as a medic’s kit.

The problem sat across from her—the one called the Belior Princess. Mira.

“I mean… this joke—”

Hazel cut herself off. Sparks danced at Mira’s fingertips, blue-violet arcs flickering at an unnatural rhythm. The air smelled sharply of ozone.

Hazel herself held high-affinity water magic. As a medical specialist who micromanaged blood in patients’ bodies, she knew what precise control demanded.

Because of that, she saw the truth behind the flourish. This wasn’t a trick. It was craft like a blade honed on silk.

Compared to a few years ago, Mira had grown stronger by more than a step. The mountain was taller. The storm ran deeper.

How did she climb so fast? What happened? Questions flickered under Hazel’s unruly curls like moths around a lantern.

Only one point was certain. Mira’s first answer wasn’t posturing.

Years ago, at Holywell Academy, Mira had already been absurdly strong. Now, calling her one person, one army wasn’t an exaggeration.

“…Fine. I understand. You don’t need to demonstrate further, Miss Mira.”

Hazel raised a hand to stop her from drawing her sword. She sighed and nudged her glasses back up.

Seriously—what’s with the Douglas Family? One by blood, one adopted, and both monsters in human skin… she thought, keeping the grumble locked behind her teeth.

It wasn’t that she didn’t dare gripe; if it were Adelaide, she’d say it straight, like tossing a pebble into a still pond. But facing the illustrious Princess Belior, her tongue felt caged.

Hazel scratched her wild hair, fingers raking like a sparrow preening, and used tucking her brown curls behind an ear to slide her gaze away, like a fish slipping into shadow. Truth was, she wasn’t close with her.

She and that white‑haired guy were old acquaintances, snow and ash in one frame. But with the girl before her… Back in Holywell Academy, Hazel hid in her lab like a mole in loam, dissecting whatever came to hand, never once crossing paths with Mira.

Dragged into politics because of Sanyi and Adelaide, she’d still never really spoken with Mira, like two stars sharing a sky yet never aligning.

To be honest, she still hadn’t figured out that old kidnapping farce, a fog thicker than river mist. She only knew the truth didn’t match the stage dressing; Adelaide didn’t treat her sister as a mere stepping stone, and that sister did seem to care back.

They’d even fled beyond the Empire’s border together, two birds knifing the wind. After that, only tales too wild to chew remained, all sparks and smoke.

Like the two of them butchering an ancient evil dragon and punting its heart like a ball under moonlight’s eye. Or grave‑robbing a centuries‑old exile, hauling up a zombie that nearly tipped the world into ruin, thunder in a coffin.

It was so overblown she couldn’t make herself believe it, let alone use it to start a conversation; silence pooled like standing water.

Fine. Letting the silence stretch wasn’t a cure. Hazel wanted to chat her way toward information, to fish a few truths from Mira’s still surface—especially their true purpose in returning.

But she wasn’t the type to spin yarns; words clung like damp leaves. After thinking too long, she fixed on Mira’s hair and pushed out a line.

“So, um… how are you?”

Mira lifted her face, calm as frost. “Hm?”

“I mean… the ‘Tessmi’s Lament’ inside you—are you okay now?”

“…”

No answer. Hazel had to fill the void, like patching a cracked wall. She said she’d dug into that curse for Sanyi, found it vicious beyond reason, a thorned vine around bone. Thankfully Skela’s modification had failed, but Mira…

“Your curse seems…” Hazel glanced again at Mira’s gray‑gold hair, shimmering like dusk wheat, then chose her words with care. “It looks a lot weaker, and it doesn’t seem to be biting back. But the bloodline‑mod part still seems active. If I’m not wrong, that ties to the soul—”

“Don’t worry. It’s fine.”

The words came down like a clean blade, leaving no thread to pull, no bridge to cross.

Hazel read the refusal; her mouth, just opening, closed like a book in rain.

Right, she didn’t have Sanyi or Adelaide’s way of being warm to everyone, a brazier in winter. If not for Adelaide, the noble Princess Belior probably wouldn’t spare her a glance.

Thinking that, she shifted under the awkward air, like a cat under a too‑bright lamp, and pulled out her mithril pocket watch. She clicked the lid open with a crisp note, and pretended to study the hands like a navigator reading stars.

The hour hand sat a finger shy of the sun mark—maybe five minutes, a breath on glass.

Heavens, she’d be alone with Her Highness that much longer; it felt like holding a plank over a storm. Adelaide, that devil with a taste for pranks, had surely sent her alone just to watch her squirm, the cat dangling a ribbon.

“You care a lot about the girl named Skela.”

Her inner grumbling snapped; hearing her beloved’s name drop like a pebble into her heart’s pond, Hazel nearly choked on her own spit.

“C‑cough—what are you even—”

Mira’s face didn’t ripple. “The Empire’s records on that curse should all be destroyed, dust swept under the rug. You dug that far for her; you must’ve spent a lot of thought.”

Hazel’s eyes widened, then she coughed twice to steady her reed‑thin voice. “O‑of course. I mean… she’s my… my… lover.”

Her voice dwindled like a candle in wind, yet even so, it took courage she had to harvest from her ribs.

Mira only nodded, natural as a spring. “Congratulations to Miss Skela, for having a lover who cares this much.”

“Uh…”

Unexpected, the line was a pebble tossed with no malice; Hazel’s shock flared, then softened into a shy warmth, a lantern glowing behind paper.

She and Sanyi had been judged for ages, stones in political shoes. The regent’s faction loved using it to bash the reformists, and even inside the reformists, opposition and silence were louder than blessing.

Honestly, it was the first time someone outside their circle acknowledged it so plainly, a small sun in a gray sky.

Maybe Mira wasn’t truly supportive; maybe it was politeness, a fan wafting summer air. Even so, Hazel felt happy, light as a kite tugging a line.

Buoyed by that sudden float of mood, she slipped and asked a question that was almost a border crossing. “And you? You and your sister, these days—”

Hazel stalled there, brakes squealing. When she’d gone underground with Adelaide, she’d felt something off in how that woman treated her so‑called sister; but it was only a feeling, a shadow on snow. She couldn’t be sure.

Afraid of stepping on a mine, she yanked her mouth shut, regret pooling like ink.

Yet again, Mira surprised her by taking the lead, words like a soft current.

“My sister and I have been together lately.”

“O‑oh. I see…”

“We crossed deserts and snow mountains, sand and ice under the same sky. For months, I stayed with her, a caravan of two.”

Mira’s voice drifted, far as starlight, like speaking to herself; yet her eyes gathered waves, tides under moon.

It was the first time since meeting that she showed emotion you could see, a bird through fog.

Hazel stared, then simply listened, guarding the quiet like a lamp screen.

“Yesterday we reached a small village nearby. Most had moved away because of the unrest, like leaves blown. Only a few elders remained, their steps slow.”

“We gave them three days of dry rations, wheat against the wind. One elder showed us the way and offered the village’s largest house for a night.”

“My sister was pleased, because the house had a great bath, and soaking in hot water is her favorite, steam like cloud wrapping her.”

“We aren’t suited to water, but we still hauled two buckets from the river, hands raw as bark. We heated them and filled the tub, then bathed together in a bathroom with half the roof caved, stars peeking like curious children.”

“…”

“Then my sister looked up at the stars through that big hole, kicked the water, and told me this…”

Mira paused, half a heartbeat, then shifted her tone, like switching instruments. “She said: One day, a green apple went shopping. It suddenly saw a red apple, and said: I can tell at a glance you like me. The red apple asked why…”

“…???”

It was a turn as odd as a fox on a bridge; then Mira fell silent again. After a moment, Hazel couldn’t help but ask, like tapping a shell: “So why??”

“Because the red apple blushed.”

“…”

“…”

Both fell into quiet, a drop hanging from the eave.

After a breath, Hazel covered her face, palm a lid on a boiling pot.

She could picture Adelaide hooking a finger under Mira’s pink cheek, flirting with that soggy joke, smug as a cat with cream.

If she weren’t wearing shoes, her toes would’ve carved out a four‑bedroom flat with a luxury bath, right there on the floorboards.

That woman’s sense of humor was beyond saving, a ship with holes.

But while Hazel’s heart ran a mess of flavors—part pity for Adelaide’s tragic jokes, part relief that she hadn’t changed—Mira’s ice‑carved face softened into a warm smile, sunlight on frost.

“These months have been the happiest time of my life.”

Hazel froze, then understood the weight sealed in those words, a plum tree blooming.

Her guess was right. The sisters were indeed that kind of “we,” a knot tied. And probably only recently tied.

After all, who but a fool in the honeymoon sun would laugh at Adelaide’s jokes?

Hazel organized the conclusion in a blink, cards falling in order. Yet before she could smile like a doting aunt at two fools in love, Mira’s happiness faded fast, like a tide retreating.

In its place, the corner of her mouth held a thin bitterness, salt on glass. “Hazel, you’re my sister’s closest friend, aren’t you?”

“Uh… I guess that counts…?”

“Then, when this is over, could you—”

Hazel waited, but no second half came, the bridge breaking mid‑span.

Mira bit her lip, face gone pale as paper, and said nothing more, winter closing in.

Even so, that look pried open a drawer in Hazel’s mind. She remembered the day she and Adelaide cut into that underground facility, blades in darkness.

Skela had been hauled away by Toka, that pervert, like prey dragged into brush. Everything collapsed into despair; Hazel, feeling like dead weight, thought she might not make it back.

She’d wanted to ask Adelaide for a favor too, like a prayer tossed into a black well.

That not‑so‑old memory rose like steam, and a tight string thrummed in her head; a bad premonition rang inside her ribs, iron on stone.

It wasn’t only that her feelings mirrored; she also remembered one more thing—a thing with no proof, so she’d shelved it and forgotten, dust on a book.

She stepped forward before she could stop herself and reached for Mira’s wrist, her voice shifting sharp, a spearpoint nearing accusation. “Wait. The anonymous letter we got over half a year ago said you would—”

Beep, beep, beep…

The pocket watch’s chime cut her words, little birds pecking glass. Hazel startled, turned by instinct, and saw a pillar of light stabbing up to the clouds, the sign the Sanctum had opened.

“The gate’s open. Get ready to fight.”

From the small hill nearby came the sound of chains snapping, iron teeth breaking. In the next second, just as planned, the whole mound swelled like a volcano and then blew, earth’s mouth roaring.

Blood Puppets spewed from the rupture, a flood of flesh, bellowing like wounded oxen; yet their shrill lament wasn’t the sharpest sound in the storm.

What truly cleaved everything was Mira’s clear blade‑song, the shiiing of a sword ripping the air, frost drawn from a sheath.

It cut the conversation—and it cut every flicker of feeling that had just risen on the swordswoman’s face, a curtain dropped.

Hazel watched her profile, a mountain line under cold light, and knew she’d missed her moment to ask.