"Why... Duke Alfred, didn't you say that in this storm-tossed world the only one we can lean on is Medith? She came as promised, even agreed with us. Then why..."

A night wind like cold knives set Lawson's wavy curls trembling; fury burned hot across his pretty, too-young face like a rash of flame.

Alfred stood with his hands behind his back and looked into the bottomless night, sorrow pooling like ink. "Because her name is Medith. That name is no longer just a person; it's a sign, a banner in the wind.

"It's also a braided cord tugging at the continent's pattern. It's tougher than our so‑called ally—the Northern Kingdom, Gylite."

"To pull her into our house quarrel is to burn the bridge with Paris." His voice was dry as winter reeds.

"If this leaks, the Wind Sprites and every force under their shelter get dragged into the whirlpool." His eyes stayed on the dark like stones in a river.

"Caution is a small lamp; keeping it lit hurts no one."

"Still, don't hang much hope on it. Hope is thin as frost; if she's smart, she'll refuse our plea."

"Even she... is helpless before Paris? Is our last lantern going out? Will Eunomia's thousand-year roots and its name crumble like a temple in an earthquake?"

Grief rose first; tears spilled. He stared at the familiar, beautiful night, a vault of cold silver fire, and sighed from the bottom of his lungs.

"No... she just... doesn't want to drag innocents in..." Their voices hung heavy as wet cloaks.

"Perhaps... only one way can turn her heart back..." Alfred's words fell like a pebble into still water.

"What way?!" Eyes flared like lamps in fog.

He pointed toward the sky like a spear. "Pray the gods guard us. Beg them for strength, and for a turn in the tide..."

Back at the palace, the hour was deep and the world hushed like a lake at midnight.

Medith slipped into her nightclothes. She laid a decoy pillow flat, a pale body under the quilt, and looked at the full, clean moon.

Light danced in her emerald eyes; pity softened her face like mist on jade.

Only now did she let her softest self show, tender as dew. War Goddess or not, she was a willow-thin eighteen-year-old girl...

"Emperor, Medith's ability truly is [Annihilation]. If so, then the one in the prophecy is likely waiting like a shadow behind the curtain..." Two girls in purple linked arms with the Emperor's iron-strong forearm; worry pooled in their eyes like rain.

Hearing this, his star-deep black eyes narrowed. He looked toward the continent's far edge, where earth met sky like a blade.

"Blood moon. Annihilation. Child of God... Ancestor Master, you've always been here, haven't you?

"But Medith isn't in your plan. The rumored 'Child of God'—besides that one from the Eastern Nation, who else under the sun?

"She's not even human. Why would you stake everything on a phantom shadow?

"Just watch. Watch Paris grind her to dust, and watch your foolish decision shatter like glass."

He lifted his head to the moon and spoke to the empty air. Hatred seethed, and anger banked like coals behind his tone...

[Free State: Sass City]

"Medith... you've always been like this. You never heed others' feelings; you rush alone to save everything. Even if you're ground to dust, you never abandon anyone, do you?"

Nira spread her long, slender fingers. Tears silvered her eyes, yet she smiled and covered the moon with her hand. Relief and sorrow flowed like twin rivers, as if the moon were you, Medith—something she would cup forever and never let go.

"Cry if you need to, Nira. I know. I've always known..." Warmth rose first; at some point, Milia had slipped behind her and embraced her, cheek resting on her back like a calming weight.

Nira finally broke. Her tears burst like a dam, and she collapsed into Milia's arms, wailing to the moonlit sky.