November 29. In the Royal Capital’s main city, Venus—named for the king’s youngest daughter—walls lock like interlaced shields, and towers spear the sky.
Its wealth runs like a golden river; its bustle glitters like starlight. It’s the district nobles and common folk dream toward.
Inside the Ogathas Great Hall, the palace’s daily council should have been bright with laughter, ruler and ministers in harmony.
Today, silence iced the air. Courtiers lined both sides, heads bowed like wind-bent reeds, bodies stiff as frozen trunks.
“So… the treasury lost one-sixth at once?” Prince Paris, the Prime Minister, gripped a stack of ledgers, his voice a cold blade.
He leveled a chill stare at the elderly accountant, the paper heavy as bricks in his hand.
The old minister looked near seventy, hair sparse as withered grass, spine curved like a crescent snail.
Age inked him in deep strokes, yet his blue eyes burned like twin lamps, sharp enough to pierce fog.
“Uh… Prime Minister… because of the Sia City incident… ahem… we shifted much coin and war stock there.
There’s pension and damage compensation… all clear in the books… you can review. If there’s any deviation… I am willing—”
He didn’t finish. Paris slammed the ledger to the table, the clap like thunder under a low sky.
Paris wore robes of blue stars and silver moons, a Crimson Rose stitched like a drop of flame.
His golden hair poured sunlight, and his sapphire eyes seized souls like a storm at sea.
“So you didn’t tell me? You dared to draw from the treasury behind my back?”
The old minister moved unhurried, offering a small bow like a leaf dipping to water.
“Sir… affairs of the treasury have always been… under my judgment. His Majesty entrusted me fully. There was no need to trouble you…”
“From now on, you tell me. Got it? Any use of the treasury goes through my hand.”
Paris’s voice hit like a drumroll; the old minister answered, helpless and afraid, like a bird jolted by hawk-shadow.
...
“My dear, Paris seems to have flared up at court because you drew heavy funds without reporting to him.”
Queen Penero cradled a white-furred, blue-eyed Pers cat, worry fluttering like a pale ribbon.
Ostos set aside his crown like a fallen halo and changed into plain robes.
He and the queen sat in a garden pavilion above the palace, savoring a quiet life as mild as spring wine.
He had expected this; he sipped the amber like calm sunlight. “Tsk… Little Pa is just too hasty. Let’s offer him more respect.”
Penero smiled, soft as dawn. “You too, dear—if you’ve laid down crown and robe, why meddle with royal power?
It’s no wonder he’s angry.”
Ostos’s expression tightened, a cloud crossing the sun. “His outlook worries me.
Thankfully Elyu carries my true teaching: a king leads, he doesn’t dominate; the people are the root.
He’s changed—wholly set on our nation’s welfare, on reform. With his hard edge and iron will, if he sincerely aids little Elyu,
those brothers will one day be legends on this continent.”
“Of course! They’re our children.” The queen hugged the cat, laughing like a child with a ribbon of light in her eyes.
“Ah… so be it…” Ostos spoke in a voice small as a mosquito’s hum, gentler than dusk.
...
Paris and Ostos sat opposite, noon sunlight blunted under the pavilion like heat behind silk.
Father and son smiled, sweeping away the earlier heaviness, and Ostos poured him wine, the stream clear as mountain spring.
“Prime Minister, you don’t resent that I tapped the treasury to support Sia City without telling you?”
Paris laughed, took the cup, then refilled his father’s, generosity flowing like a warm breeze.
“Dad, what are you saying? Seeking the people’s good, steadying the state—that’s my aim too.
It’s just a bit of coin. Measured against the lives lost in Sia City, what does money matter?”
“Hearing you say that makes me truly happy.” Ostos watched Paris’s honest face, relief settling like soft rain.
“Dad, I know what’s on your mind. I’ve thought a lot lately.
If it’s all for the people and the country, who wears the crown doesn’t matter; it’s just a circlet of metal.
Elyu and I are brothers in truth; blood runs thicker than any oath.
Whatever I ask of him works the same.
But… did we draw too much this time? To aid them even at the cost of tapping the vault?”
Paris drank slowly, the wine a measured river crossing a quiet valley.
Ostos chuckled, sound light as bamboo knocking. “Remember this forever.
Eunomia has endured in peace not by the Southern Kingdom’s imperial rule, nor by the Northern Kingdom’s braided factions.
We rely on the people; the people are our roots gripping the earth.
Why does the Southern Kingdom still not dare covet us? They must trade and keep friendly ties.
Even if the Eastern Nation’s strength has halved—everyone knows—so what?
If ruler and people share one heart, our thirty million souls are our soldiers, our spear and our shield.
Let the Southern Kingdom hold half the continent and field three million heavy troops—so what?
Know this: the Eastern Nation never needs Regido, never needs Heavenly Edge. We ourselves are the strongest weapon.”
Paris clasped his hands tight, fingers interlocked like a prayer, eyes widening as if a door had swung open to stormlight.
After a long breath, he settled, posture neat as a drawn line. “Thank you, Father, for your guidance. Paris understands.”
Ostos nodded, approval warm as a hearth. “You still have much to learn. Rest easy—what is yours will be yours.”
Paris embraced him quickly, a brief warmth like a sunbeam, then turned to leave.
...
“Father… you’re wrong. What’s mine, I’ll take back with my own hands.”
His mood was a shadowed cliff; his words were knives wrapped in silk.
“The Southern Kingdom doesn’t attack us only because Heavenly Edge stands. The Northern Kingdom? Hmph. They move for profit alone.
Hearts—I know them far better than you do, my dear father and brother…”
Paris walked toward his castle, face inked with gloom like storm-cloud charcoal.
A white dragon banner clawed at the sky, slashing the clouds and dancing like a true dragon in high wind.
...
November 29, 8:00 a.m. Medith and her people had donned their uniforms.
Cloaks billowed like midnight waves, sword-pins gleamed like frost, and joy leapt in their eyes like sparrows at dawn.
They stood before Sia City’s gate, crisp and gallant, a row of blades under morning light.
There was no route straight to Xurenxus City, so they switched to carriages.
So much cargo rolled like a moving mountain that hundreds of warhorses—able to carry Impado—took charge of escort.
Captain Haidra put on his armor, his striking beauty shining like polished steel, and sat astride the lead like one rider holding a pass.
Elyu looked at Medith. “Then we part for now. Your great kindness will be engraved in Eunomia’s heart.
In this life, we’ll do our utmost to help you accomplish anything.
Medith, I look forward to the day we meet again.”
Medith sat tall on her warhorse, her black-sun cloak snapping like a raven’s wing.
“Your Majesty flatters me. But since you’ve put it that way, I won’t be polite next time.”
She smiled, a peach blossom opening, and thought: at least the Divine Stone now had a trail.
“This is all the Regido intel we’ve gathered. I don’t know your physical condition,
but this should help you.” Elyu had a lavish chest loaded, gilt gleaming like captured dawn,
as precious and splendid as the Queen’s Collapse Point dossier.
“I won’t be polite, then. I’ve nothing to repay you—still okay?” Medith joked lightly, though the intel was exactly what they needed.
Elyu’s sincerity was a clear bell. “Compared to what you did, this is nothing.
If you need anything else, speak. I’ll do my utmost.”
Medith fell silent. Elyu was a sovereign; his words were silk cords binding the whole kingdom to her shoulders.
“Thank you, Your Majesty. Given time, I’ll repay you a thousandfold.”
“Mmm…” Elyu didn’t argue. “Captain Haidra, I’m counting on you.”
Captain Haidra nodded, face grave as a carved stone.
For so great an event to erupt so near, and he knew nothing—Medith saved far more than Sia City’s people.
“Medith…” Nira stood beside Delaia, words trembling on her lips like rain about to fall.
Medith tossed her hair, a dark stream. “I need a guide. Want to come?”
“I… mm!” Joy burst from Nira like a spring sparrow; she sprinted and vaulted onto the horse.
“Then…” Medith turned her warhorse, hooves biting earth like drums. “Set off—”
“Yehahaha—” Hundreds of soldiers roared with bright laughter, a river of cheer flowing between banners.
Elders and the women traded wide grins, laughter jangling like silver bells, and they took the road home,
the path unfurling like a long silk ribbon toward the horizon.
