A terrifying rumor swept the mage world like a cold wind knifing alleys—Arcadia’s academy eats people.

It began with a vanguard of three Dead Sea magi, like black gulls skimming a storm-tossed shore.

Then the Church, state-backed Sinister Organizations, and a couple mercenaries crept in like moths toward a shuttered lantern.

Not a single one completed their mission, their plans dissolving like ink in rain.

Most died inside the old city, their lives snuffed like candles in a draft.

A few were let go on purpose, staggering out like broken marionettes with cut strings.

They babbled the same line for days, a cracked record spinning in the dark.

“The statue… the fountain statue was hunting me,” they gasped like fugitives chased by stone wolves.

They meant the Wisdom Goddess at the academy gate, the bronze woman cradling a water jar like moonlit clay.

She was just a statue—no hinges, no seams from head to plinth, all smooth as riverworn stone.

How could bronze move, much less give chase, like a hawk stooping in night?

Whatever madness seized them, one thing stood firm like a buried root—Arcadia City hides powerful defenses unknown to man.

Those who bled once, and those who watched, both grew wary like cats hearing a twig snap.

Over a week slipped by like mist over tiles, slow and silver.

Faculty teams from Mysidia and Ivalice came to inspect the repairs, stepping soft like surveyors in dew.

The joint venture slid onto its rails like a train catching the groove.

Yekase had vanished into somewhere, a stone skipped far across a lake.

Burns and Artemis handled the naming, their voices tapping like pens on glass.

It became the Arcadia Institute of Infinite Power Engineering, a banner raised like a new dawn over steel.

July 13th, deep night, Dorothy walked into the academy square like a shadow crossing a pale stage.

She climbed into the dry fountain, a swallow dropping into an empty basin, and tapped the bronze thigh of the goddess.

“Teacher, confirmed—Golden Apple ripens tomorrow night,” she whispered like a secret folded into silk.

The silent statue split with a single seam, opening front and back like a book.

Yekase stepped out, dropped from the plinth, and rolled her neck—crack, crack, like pebbles in a jar.

“How long did I stay buried?” she asked, voice flat as a blade on whetstone.

“Uh, more than a week? You really couldn’t feel time?” Dorothy replied like wind stirring a reed.

“Not a clue—inside that hard shell, blind and deaf, a coffin of bronze,” Yekase said like a diver surfacing.

“Only an Infinite Power radar to sense outside—time breaks easy in that dark.”

“I do remember how many batches of guests came,” she added, counting them like knots on rope.

She pressed the Wisdom Goddess back together; seams vanished under her fingertips like frost under sun.

Flash Energy flowed across her fingers, smoothing bronze like liquid light.

“The rumor’s out, right?” she asked, eyes scanning like knives over maps.

“Yep, I had my private soldiers flood the feeds like a river of bots,” Dorothy said, quick as sparks.

They strolled out of the academy and onto the Krasus Platform, a cliff-edge like a swan’s neck over valleys.

From that height they looked down on two cities burning lamps like constellations.

One nestled at the roots, one on the crown of the World Tree—Paris and Mysidia, twin embers in a giant’s boughs.

Yekase swept her gaze over hills and woods, hoping for movement like a hunter reading grass.

But weather ruined it, clouds and night draping a gray veil like gauze over a bruise.

She’d never watched a real march; the field was a puzzle with pieces lost in fog.

“Any major players on the move?” she asked, voice low as embers.

“As far as I know, the Church and Labyrinth City will send troops like iron ants,” Dorothy said, counting facts like heirlooms.

“They’ll likely clash outside the city; if the palace resolves fast, it won’t touch us,” she added, calm as a pond.

“Don’t jinx it—it sounds like baiting fate,” Yekase said, tapping the railing like rain.

“They can also send a strike team, hard and fast, like a needle through silk.”

“True—my bad,” Dorothy breathed, a small leaf settling.

“So, confirm the line. We grab the Golden Apple first, then slip the ring like a fish cutting net.”

“So brief!” Dorothy smiled, a paper fan flicking once.

“Can you get back to the palace tonight?” Yekase asked, voice steady as stone.

“I can,” Dorothy answered, a lamp lifted.

“Can you mark the exact spot of the ripening?” Yekase asked, like chalk on slate.

“The new branch in the royal garden,” Dorothy said, a green spark in the dark.

“Then it’s simple,” Yekase replied, a trap ready like a mouth of steel.

To secure time, place, people before the storm—she felt the old organizational pulse return like a heartbeat caught again.

They dropped under night to the outskirts of Paris, shadows stepping into lantern glow like rain into gutters.

The palace had tightened security, spears stiff as a forest of pines.

But as soon as Dorothy showed her face, the guards let them through like doors opening to a known song.

No—only the Second Princess and her maid automaton entered, two figures like ink and porcelain.

On the way, a minister bowed, voice thin as paper. “Your Highness, the situation’s tense. His Majesty orders you to remain in your chambers.”

“I know,” Dorothy nodded, a swan dipping once.

“I feel uneasy alone. Send word to the army—call Lieutenant Rand into the palace to guard me,” she added, a bell rung inside the night.

“Yes,” the minister said, retreating like a shadow pulled by a larger shadow.

He escorted Dorothy to her bedroom door, then hurried off like a courier running stormward.

“Teacher, I’ll show you the terrain,” Dorothy said, eyes sharp as new leaves.

“…” The air held its breath like dusk.

“Lymriel!” she called, a name like a ruby glinting.

“Master, what are your orders?” Lymriel answered, a porcelain voice under moonlight.

“Rand watched me grow up, like an old oak by the gate,” Dorothy said, warmth and ache braiding like threads.

“He’s grandfather to me. He helped when I formed the private troops, smoothing paths like hands over creased silk.”

“…” Lymriel’s thoughts curled like smoke behind glass—this kind of kindly butler-deputy is a neon flag for betrayal.

Her silicone face kept its perfect smile, ruby eyes catching moonlight like two still pools that seem to breathe.

“From here you can overlook the whole garden, but no direct route—go down through the front tower,” Dorothy said, mapping the land like brushstrokes.

“That water channel’s a royal path; with my father’s secrecy, getting it blocked tomorrow would be no surprise,” she added, dry as old wood.

“From that restroom window, you can watch the entire corridor like a hawk from a ridge,” she said, pointing like a needle.

“The garden has three entrances; one leads to the barracks, meant for rescue,” she finished, a gate drawn in air.

She glanced at the empty corridor—Rand still hadn’t arrived, a chair missing its weight.

“Lymriel, how should we set the board?” Dorothy asked, voice lowered like a lantern hood.

“Cut the barracks route,” Lymriel said, words crisp as flint.

“Have our private soldiers ambush in the tower and the royal path, teeth buried in moss.”

“You can’t appear in the garden, but Lymriel can enter early—no one guards against a maid automaton trimming hedges,” she continued, a blade hidden in flowers.

“That was you and Alice’s original plan…?” Dorothy asked, the name a moth to flame.

“Yes,” Lymriel said, steady as marble.

“Will you offer the Golden Apple to her?” Dorothy asked, a thorn under silk.

“Don’t ask questions of the same family as ‘Do you love me,’” Lymriel replied, unmoved as a shrine stone.

“…I understand,” Dorothy said, breath settling like dust.

They waited a long while—no footsteps, only night ticking like water from eaves.

Dorothy felt the wrongness coil like a snake, and stopped a little handmaid, her voice a quiet bell.

“Go urge the minister,” she said, sending the girl like a sparrow down the hall.

Before the handmaid’s shadow faded, the minister stumbled back from the other end like a man kicked by thunder.

Dorothy’s heart dropped like a pebble into a well, but her face stayed smooth as lacquer.

“Compose yourself. Speak after you’ve caught your breath,” she said, palm up like a calm river.

“Report, Your Highness!” the minister gasped, sweat beads like rain on his brow.

“Lieutenant Rand… Lieut—” His eyes shook like reeds in wind.

“What happened to him?” Dorothy asked, gripping his shoulder like a lifeline.

Betrayal? Lymriel’s gut tightened like wire—if Rand turned, their private troops’ reliability frayed like rope in salt.

“He passed away in his tent!” the minister blurted, words dropping like stones.

…?!

“W-what? Rand? In the tent?” Dorothy’s mind went blank, words breaking into shards like smashed porcelain.

Lymriel stepped forward, empty-focus eyes fixing on the minister’s fear-crumpled face like clamps on soft clay.

“The Princess wants details,” she said, voice level as a metronome.

“Yes, yes!” the minister wiped his brow, his story stumbling like a cart with one wheel.

“I walked into the camp, never imagining such a thing—everything looked normal, soldiers training hard for tomorrow like hammers on anvils.”

“Under orders, I didn’t linger. I went straight to Lieutenant Rand’s tent,” he said, breath like torn paper.

“And then…” Dorothy’s face paled, a cloud overtaking dawn.

“The tent was quiet, lamp still lit, a lonely star in canvas,” the minister said, eyes wet.

“I rang the bell and waited—no response, the silence thick as syrup.”

“So I dared to lift the flap and look inside,” he continued, voice crawling like a beetle.

Lymriel almost slapped him, patience fraying like thread—stop performing like a street storyteller.

“Lieutenant Rand lay in his chair, his long sword driven through his chest—his own heart pinned like a butterfly,” the minister said at last, words cold as tin.

Dorothy shook her head, thoughts scattering like leaves. “That… hss… why… was that sword his personal blade?”

“I’m no military man, Your Highness,” the minister said, head bowed like a reed. “We only met in passing—I don’t know!”

“…” Dorothy’s eyes sought Lymriel, a ship looking for light.

She pulled herself straight—if she can’t handle this, tomorrow will devour her like fire eats straw.

“I understand. I’ll go see,” she said, decision hardening like iron in water.

“You mustn’t, Your Highness—what if a killer still lurks nearby, a snake in grass?” the minister pleaded, hands fluttering like scared sparrows.

“My Lieutenant Rand is dead!” Dorothy snapped, grief blazing like a torch in winter wind.

“Dead in our glorious capital, in his own tent, under our banners like gold cloth—and you ask me to pray locked in my room?”

“I wouldn’t dare!” the minister shrank, neck tucked like a turtle.

He stepped aside, opening a path like parting reeds.

Dorothy strode out, footsteps quick as rain.

Lymriel had pressed for details without orders, then remembered what she was—only a maid automaton, a tool of porcelain and gears.

She kept silent and followed, obedient as a shadow trailing its lantern.

Two silhouettes vanished at the corridor’s end, swallowed like ink in black water.

The minister watched their backs, whispering, “Please be safe, Princess Dorothy,” the words drifting like incense.

He gathered his coat hem and ran toward the palace like a man chasing the last bell.

“Rand… he was truly good to me,” Dorothy said, voice trembling like a plucked string on the way to the barracks.

Lymriel kept her silence, a still statue in moonlight.

“As a child I pestered him for stories, tales from the army like campfires in my room,” Dorothy said, the past flickering like old film.

“He’d touch my hair and face with callused hands, rough and warm like bark,” she whispered, pain brimming like a full cup.

“Until I left for Ivalice, he was the elder who cared most, a hearth in winter,” she said, breath thin.

Lymriel stayed silent, her thoughts folded like paper cranes.

“Then I met Grandpa Simmons and n… and Teacher Luciferin,” Dorothy said, names like comets through fog.

“Even in the Engine City, he wrote me letters, ink stepping like ants—I teased him for not using a phone,” she added, a sad smile like a bent reed.

They stopped before a dark-yellow tent, canvas dull as old wheat.

“He won’t need to learn anymore… and I’ll never… see his letters again,” she murmured, words a snowfall.

A human hand rested on Dorothy’s shoulder, warm as tea in cold night.

Yekase pulled her into an embrace, steady as a tree against wind.

“Every nation’s reform spills blood,” Yekase said, tone low as a drum.

“He’s not the first, and he won’t be the last,” she continued, a line like iron law.

“I understand…” Dorothy breathed, grief folding like a fan.

“So we can’t let his blood wash away for nothing,” Yekase said, resolve bright as a blade.

“…Yes,” Dorothy answered, eyes kindling like coals.

Lymriel released Dorothy and moved ahead, shielding her like a wall of willow.

She meant to enter alone and investigate, a needle to thread truth through canvas.

But her maid apron caught, clenched by a small hand like a bird clutching lace.

“Death comes to everyone—so I can face it too,” Dorothy said, her voice steadying like a bow drawn true.