June 25.

After parting ways with Gill and the others, Medith’s party stepped onto the spine of the main road toward Sass City. In the distance, a once-scar-thin hill path, rebuilt at Gill’s order, had become Herbert’s Bridge.

The old chain bridge, once trembling like a loose reed, now lay wide and sure like a white stone river. For months, Medith and Gill had pressed the land flat, turning that private shortcut into a true second road. The path ran shorter and safer, its edges lanterned by the Kuso Guild, local sentries, and posts of the Dusk Legion.

Of late, the Dusk Legion rode a bright crest, and Medith’s name cut the wind like a sharp banner. No one with sense picked a fight, for even the Southern Kingdom had stumbled at her feet.

The Bloodhand Gang’s fall still sent ripples like aftershocks through calm water. Herbert and Melia’s sacrifice would not fade. Their names were ember-brands on every heart in the Kuso Guild and the Dusk Legion.

Medith rode at the point, her white stallion carrying her like a rolling cloud, its breath a pale mist. When it first came, it seemed as ordinary as the countless steeds she had ridden. Yet each charge fused them like sinew and bone, life and death braided tight.

If it had a spirit, it would wear a frost crown by now, king among horses.

Medith smiled and looked back. A dozen senior cadres rode in her wake, a flock emptied from the nest. They were riding to a great nation. Only by laying bare their depth like a mountain’s roots could they win even a sliver of chance.

“Commander! Commander—!” A rider in legion colors came pounding through dust, urgency snapping like a whip. Medith lifted a hand; the column pooled to a halt.

...

“What’s wrong?” Medith pulled a waterskin from the saddle and passed it to him, his breath ragged like torn cloth.

“Glug, glug... hah... Commander... the King of the Eastern Nation sent you a letter. Since it was an invitation, Miss Cecilia opened it to read. She said it had to reach you, no matter what. Please, see for yourself...”

She didn’t need more; the words fell like iron. At the words King of the Eastern Nation, Medith’s willow brows pulled tight like a drawn bow. At such a hinge in the road, Paris inviting her spelled a feast laid over a snare.

Medith snatched the letter, the paper cool as a blade against her trembling fingers. Her eyes skimmed like swallows. A moment later, she set it down, her face sinking like a storm front. Sais hustled to her side with a question, and Medith lifted her right hand, pressing the letter close to her face.

The others surged in like a tide. When the last eyes left the page, shock shivered through the ranks like cold rain...

...

“Medith, what now? Do we go?” Iling’s voice carried the weight first. Her hands clasped so tight her pale nails crossed and slid, her struggle bright as a trapped moth.

Sais slapped the table, the crack like thunder, her blossom-bright face flushed with anger. “Of course we can’t go! It’s an open trap dressed as a banquet. A man who can kill his own father and brother—what won’t he do?!”

Nora, listening aside, started as if pricked. She thought of how Medith and the other Wind Sprites had met the disaster in her iron‑alliance, Eunomia, with lips sealed like stone. Hearing Sais now, the curtain lifted in a single breath.

This council mattered, heavy as an anvil. Aside from the elder Sprites who had followed Medith till now, even the Nameless Lina Sisters were kept outside. Yet Nora, an outsider, was granted entry like a lantern in the dark, proof of how highly Medith valued her.

“But... not going doesn’t work either,” Milia said, fingers grinding her temples as a dull drumbeat of pain rose. “He’s inviting us as an ally; we can’t make it ugly by refusing, right?”

“Then...” Nora ventured, voice soft as paper, “could we say the Commander is unwell, or swamped with affairs?”

Medith shook her head, the motion clean as a drawn blade. “No need to argue. I have to go.”