Prince Paris looked pleased, like a lake catching first light. He thought Medith’s proposal was brilliant. “Medith, is that an Elf Clan term, or something you coined?”

Pressure rolled off his handsome, regal face like a mountain’s shadow, and her chest tightened like a drum. His face-to-face with the King still rang in her bones like cold wind through reeds.

“It was in some war treatises I read in my room, titled…” Medith froze mid-breath, like a bird hitting glass. She groped for titles and lines, but her mind turned to fog, leaving only the distilled essence she’d absorbed.

“What’s it called?” Paris leaned in with bright, expectant eyes, like a hawk sighting a glint. “My deepest apologies, Your Highness,” she said, stepping as if on thin ice, “my memory faltered—perhaps it was knowledge given by the Queen.”

“Oh.” His answer landed flat as falling ash, as if he’d expected it.

“We’re not here to interrogate guests, we’re here to host them,” Ogathas cut in, snuffing the moment like a candle. “Show them the Royal Capital, walk them through our gear. I’ll prepare tomorrow’s banquet. That’s all—dismissed!” He scattered the meeting like leaves in a gust and vanished.

Haidra’s expression knotted like tangled branches, then he led Medith and the others away. As they turned to leave, Prince Paris called, “Commander Medith, would you honor me with tea?”

His smile was sincere, a spring breeze over marble, and paired with that noble face it hit like lightning. Even Haidra flushed like a maiden at a festival, while Medith’s team bristled like hedgehogs at a bootstep.

They’d never fancied humans, not in this life, and their stations were no trifles. They bore the Queen’s honor and stood among the Wind Sprite’s sharpest spears. Tea was tea, but the undertow said more, like a river hiding teeth.

Sais flicked her a glance, a quick question like a sparrow’s peck. Whatever else, Medith was the lead, and that wouldn’t change. “I don’t deserve the honor. Your invitation humbles me, Your Highness.”

“Heh… good. Come with me, then. As for your subordinates, I’ve already arranged quarters. Kailon, guide them.” He made a courteous gesture, then led Medith and Haidra down the steps. The three passed the palace gate and headed straight for a cluster of towering, ornate buildings, like a thicket of spears dressed in silk.

From afar, the trim matched the Elvenfolk’s noble quarter, yet richer, like brocade stitched with stars. Up close, she saw it was a castle—over thirty meters high, grandeur spilling like a waterfall. Its outer walls were faced with pure white brick, snowy as fresh chalk. At the top, a blue banner snapped in the wind like a sky-blue blade.

A white dragon was inked upon it—six claws, twenty-four teeth—thrashing mid-flight, a storm given scales. Its gaze bit like frost, a god’s judgment cast on mortals. The brushwork was exquisite, each scale crisp as a tile, the beast so vivid it seemed ready to leap free and sail the clouds.

“Your Highness, do you also study the Ancestor Master?” Milia looked up at that white dragon with reverence, like a pilgrim under a holy peak, and her mind leapt to the Divine Lance.

“Yes!” Prince Paris brightened, excitement rising like a banner in wind. “The Ancestor Master’s legend spreads across the continent. You might not know the Four Great Kingdoms, but you’ve heard that name. Alone, he culled a million monsters, fought the four great demon gods, and though he died exhausted, he freed the Talos Continent.

“He left precious gifts to shield those who came after. It’s a pity… he overestimated humanity—and our desires. They never found the right way to use the Divine Stone.”

Medith’s heart hammered like a war drum, a sense of kinship blooming like fire in dry grass. She drew breath to speak, but Paris’s voice flowed on. “The Divine Stone is meant to be merged. They say that once it’s whole, the bearer gains the final secret of this land.

“I’ve chased that goal without rest, gathering hundreds of fragments—drops in a desert. Later I realized, the Divine Stone can’t be made whole at all…”

Fury flashed across his face like lightning behind clouds, then smoothed to calm water. From the edge, Medith caught that flicker and filed it away like a pin in silk.

“Welcome back, His Highness Paris.” Several members of the Erene Guard saluted and swung open the towering gate, wood and iron groaning like old oaks. Inside, Medith saw a fortress more than a residence. The encircling walls rose eighteen meters, nearly palace-high, stone piled like cliffs. The span was vast, four sides running near twenty kilometers, a belt of stone and steel. Soldiers bearing the Erene Guard colors and the prince’s sigil marched and drilled, lines moving like tides.

“My gods… Your Highness’s residence is defended this heavily?” Iling blurted, eyes wide as moons.

“Heh. I’m a suspicious man by nature,” Paris said, smile thin as a knife’s edge. “Always think someone wants me dead. So, within my power, I give myself as much safety as I can.”

“Suspicious, hmm…” Medith turned the word over like a pebble in her palm and stepped into the castle’s shade.

…

“Brother Paris!” In the grand hall, a richly dressed girl flew at him like a swallow into its nest. Paris steadied her and set her right, brow creasing like a drawn bow. “Venus? Why are you here? Did you sneak out on Father again?”

“No! Brother Elyu brought me!” Venus lifted her chin, righteous as a little fox with stolen grapes.

“That’s right, I brought her,” a handsome man said, stepping before Medith and the others like a dancer into light. He stood a touch shorter than Paris, around one-eighty, his attire more relaxed—a fine white suit, not ostentatious, not dull, fitting him like a breeze fits a sail.

He wore golden, wavy hair that, to Medith’s eye, looked a bit like a bird’s nest, chaotic at first glance, yet carefully combed upon a second look. His face was plainer than Paris’s, but in both brows sat a king’s aura, like twin torches on a dark road.

Look longer, and the flames differed. Paris’s gaze was domineering, a blade laid bare, while Elyu’s was calm, a lake holding a brewing storm. In that single difference of eyes, who wore the Emperor’s wind showed like ink in water.

“Lady Medith, what happened to your homeland pains me,” Elyu said, sincerity steady as rain on parched fields. “Yet I’m heartened as well. The Elf Clan has a commander like you—fortune within misfortune.”

His honest face and clever eyes made Medith’s breath catch for a beat, a bell struck once. Not desire—no. She was moved by his ability to bend and rise, bamboo in the wind.

How many princes lower themselves to those beneath them? Even Medith struggled to drop her pride; if she were that easy to sway, she wouldn’t have pointed at the Queen’s nose and cursed.

“Your Highness Elyu is too kind. Without everyone’s help, I’d have achieved nothing. Your prayers in your busy hour are the greatest aid. With Princes Elyu and Paris, the Empire stands like copper walls and iron ramparts.”

She returned courtesy with courtesy, blades sheathed in silk.

Paris watched Elyu’s every move, eyes like a falcon counting beats. When Elyu finished, Paris hugged him, arms solid as bars. “Elyu, it’s been too long.”

Elyu patted Paris’s broad back, their bond warm as blood under firelight.

“No wonder,” Iling murmured, envy bright as dew. “They’re true brothers.”