When Oren and Dysaia reached the Sidius Archduke’s castle at the heart of Raging Tide City, its grandeur stole his breath away.

Twin spires pierced the sky on either side of the palace facade, radiating solemn majesty. Intricately carved towers layered upon each other, creating a tidal wave of architectural splendor from afar. Calling it a mere "masterpiece" felt utterly inadequate.

"Please follow me," Ellen murmured beside Oren as he stood transfixed. She briskly ascended the stone steps to the main gate, and Oren and Dysaia trailed behind her into the palace.

They hadn’t climbed long before stepping inside. Polished marble formed the palace walls, every carving a work of supernatural artistry. Towering stone pillars lined the hall with arrogant dignity, their vaulted ceilings seeming to touch heaven itself—blurring the line between reality and dream.

Under Ellen’s guidance, they didn’t linger in the grand hall. Soon she turned down a side corridor and gently pushed open a door.

"The Archduke awaits you both in the garden. Please enter."

Beyond the doorway, Oren glimpsed paradise: countless pools and fountains glittered under the sun. Tall fruit trees cast dappled shadows over white marble floors. Ornate pillars framed elegant archways leading deeper into the oasis.

At the far end of an archway, a girl in royal robes crouched on the ground, absorbed in a thick book. Pale crimson bangs swept across her snow-white forehead; a long braid cascaded from her shoulder to her waist. Her porcelain skin made her dark hair, lashes, and eyes gleam like polished obsidian. Silent and poised, she resembled an elegant literary doll—beautiful enough to be crafted from porcelain.

Sensing newcomers, she sprang to her feet. After smoothing her gown, she met their eyes just as Ellen stepped forward and bowed deeply.

"Your Highness Princess Lohanna. The honor is mine."

"And mine too, Ellen."

After the polite exchange, Ellen gestured toward Oren and Dysaia. "This is Dysaia, Princess of the Silver Dragon. And this is—"

"Oren of Nivia?" Lohanna cut in with a smile. "William told me about you. Said you’re quite the interesting young man."

Oren bowed slightly in respect. Ellen then turned to Lohanna. "Your Highness, is the Archduke here? He summoned us to this garden."

"I am."

The voice came from across the garden. An elderly man leaning on a cane slowly turned around. Oren studied him: a stout frame, tea-brown hair, curved eyebrows over narrow eyes—a face as round and gentle as a Buddha’s statue. Yet the empty left sleeve and the jewel-encrusted longsword at his waist hinted this Buddha might not be so benevolent.

"Archduke, I’ve brought Dysaia and Oren," Ellen announced, bowing again. The old man nodded, limping toward Oren with a warm smile.

"Welcome! I am Edward Sidius, Archduke of this duchy."

"Dysaia. Princess of the Silver Dragon."

After Edward’s introduction, Dysaia extended her hand for a brief shake. His gaze then shifted to Oren, who bowed and murmured, "Oren of Nivia. Retainer to the Silver Dragon Princess."

"Ah, I’ve heard of you." Edward waved to a servant, who wheeled over chairs. "Lohanna mentioned you’re quite the intriguing lad."

"Haha... well, that’s—" Oren glanced at Lohanna, who merely stuck out her tongue playfully before addressing Edward.

"Father, I’ll take my leave now."

"Go ahead."

Lohanna bowed to Oren and Dysaia before drifting away. Edward and Dysaia settled into their chairs.

"Archduke," Dysaia began once seated, her voice low but direct. "You mentioned receiving the Alliance’s declaration of war. When will hostilities begin?"

Edward inhaled deeply, hands gripping his cane. His voice turned gravelly, older than his years. "After the declaration arrived, my border garrisons reported the Alliance besieging Precipice Fortress. Even with their elite troops still recovering from the Northern Tribes campaign... the fortress fell." His knuckles whitened around the cane. "But their victory cost them dearly. They’ve halted their advance. My spies confirm Isaerel needs a full month to bring his elites to the front. His miscalculation. Because in one month..." Edward’s eyes locked onto Dysaia’s.

"...It will be Progenitor King Ilis Elvys’s birthday," Dysaia finished.

Ilis Elvys—the hero who led humanity to conquer this world. Every nation celebrated his birthday with grand ceremonies. The Alliance’s capital, New Capital, hosted a global mage tournament that day. Mages from Sidius, Tadallas, and the Alliance itself would compete, honoring history’s greatest mage.

But Edward saw something else in this anniversary.

"During the Progenitor King’s birthday observance, no nation may wage war. As a gesture of goodwill, each must exchange royal heirs with another nation. They return only after the two-day ceremony." Edward exhaled slowly. "This custom—born when the Alliance was the world’s sole power—may save us now. I’ll leverage it to secure a temporary truce with Isaerel. The war... will pause."

Oren frowned. "But what if Isaerel ignores the tradition and attacks anyway? Even if he honors it—after the celebrations, war resumes. Your forces won’t hold a year."

Edward waved dismissively. "Isaerel cherishes tradition. He bears the Elvys name. He’d never desecrate his ancestor’s birthday with bloodshed." A strange fervor flickered in his eyes. "As for after the festival..."

*We’re attending the mage tournament in the Alliance.*

*That’s when we assassinate Isaerel.*

Silence hung thick. Oren finally blinked, his gaze drifting to Lohanna. She sat beneath a blossoming tree, petals tangling in her wind-tossed hair—a vision of fragile beauty.

"And your daughter?" Oren asked quietly. "The tradition requires you to send her to Isaerel as a hostage."

Edward’s face tightened with pain. "I know." He watched Lohanna, his voice cracking. "That’s why I summoned you." His expression hardened as he turned to Oren. "You needn’t worry about assassinating Isaerel. Or seizing his children. We’ll handle the dirty work. Your only task—" His trembling hand gripped Oren’s knee, sweat beading on skin like withered bark. "—is to rescue my daughter when the chaos begins. I’m prepared to sacrifice everything for the freedom my ancestors bled to win. But a girl not yet eighteen... she shouldn’t share my death sentence."

His grip tightened, desperate.

"You’ll help me. Won’t you?"