To prevent panic among the Elves, news of the rebellion against Mother was initially kept secret.

It became a truth known only to a few.

But paper cannot wrap fire forever.

The malformed embryos in the Nursery Chamber could still be hidden—yet the thick fog that followed pushed events beyond repair.

Even the most oblivious Elves sensed Lundeheim’s strangeness.

Mother remained as gentle as ever, yet now muttered incomprehensible whispers.

An unnatural fog swallowed the city whole, while Governor’s only decree was: "Stay indoors unless absolutely necessary."

The Elves sensed something momentous approaching.

Soon after, they learned of kin vanishing into the mist.

That was the final straw snapping their frayed nerves.

Mercifully, accustomed to obeying Mother, the Elves did not descend into chaos despite their fear.

They were simply lost.

Like children who’d lost their most loving parent in an accident, they felt a quiet sorrow at the funeral—emptiness where something vital had been. Too young to grasp that this ache would haunt their days and nights, even into the grave, they could only stare blankly.

Huddled together in the church, they longed for someone to tell them what to do next—just as Mother once had.

Fawena had been stopped countless times by Elves asking:

"Governor, what should we do now?"

*Yes… what should we do?*

Fawena drifted in thought until she stood beneath the church’s central dome.

The fog smothering Lundeheim blocked the sunlight, so the stained-glass windows cast no rainbow beams.

Only Lanterns hung overhead, strung together simply, bathing the church in calm amber light.

That light alone kept the fog from swallowing the church like it had the missing Elves.

Fawena gazed up at the Lanterns.

For a moment, the church felt like an island—and those Lanterns, its lone lighthouse.

*How long would this lighthouse stand? Would any ship ever follow its glow home?*

She didn’t know.

Lowering her eyes, she scanned her kin gathered below.

Their gazes had already fixed on her.

Confusion. Hope. Pleading…

They wanted her to guide them.

Like children clinging to older siblings after a mother’s death, Fawena understood: as Governor and eldest in spirit, she must lead—even though Lundeheim had never known the concept of family.

Her uncertainty vanished.

Raising her voice, she declared:

"We will kill Mother."

The words exploded like cold water in hot oil.

A young Elf shot up, protesting:

"Is there truly no other way? Must we… kill Mother?"

It was the same Elf who’d earlier demanded Lundeheim solve its own crisis.

Fawena recalled he’d been among the first to learn of the Matriarch’s madness.

He’d spearheaded the so-called council, claiming Lundeheim had stagnated into a lifeless pond—destined to fall to neighboring nations’ Steam Armor.

Yet now, he was the first to object.

Raw anguish twisted his face. He couldn’t bear to kill the Matriarch.

*How ironic.*

The youth who’d clamored for change now shrank from raising a blade against Mother, while Fawena—the old guard’s symbol—begged Champions and Sorceresses to do the deed.

*Just children, after all.*

Fawena shook her head. "There is no other way, Austen. You know this. We have exhausted every option."

Austen froze, then slumped back onto the pew.

Fawena turned to the others.

"Only by killing Mother can our civilization survive. Only then can Lundeheim endure."

"It’s vile. Cruel. Perhaps the most unforgivable sin in existence."

"But we must do it."

She lifted her gaze to the Lanterns.

She knew they were Mother’s eyes—

Watching them, these wayward children about to commit the ultimate betrayal.

*What would Mother think?*

Fawena’s mind flickered.

Anger? Weariness? Resentment?

Yet the Lanterns’ soft glow still cradled her children—

As if smiling at them, always.

*It’s an illusion,* Fawena told herself fiercely. *Mother is mad. She doesn’t even know what she’s doing.*

She closed her eyes, breathed deep, and stilled the storm within.

Facing her kin once more, her voice trembled slightly:

"We will carry the sin of matricide to survive…"

"—We will bid Mother farewell and set sail on our voyage."

Silence crashed over the church like a tomb sealing shut.

Then—a soft sob from a corner. Others joined in. The weeping swelled until the entire church drowned in the grief of lost children.

Fawena stood motionless in the tide, head bowed in shared sorrow.

Suddenly, the crowd parted. Two young Elves approached.

A male. A female.

Fawena vaguely recalled their names and numbers. They were always together.

But in Lundeheim, no word existed for what bound them—friends, perhaps, or something else.

Arm in arm, they reached Fawena. Their faces held respectful terror. They exchanged a glance, then lifted their chins like penitents facing judgment.

"Governor," the female Elf began, "I… I’m with child."

Fawena froze.

At first, the words made no sense.

*Child?* All children came from the Nursery Chamber, birthed by Mother.

Then understanding struck.

Her eyes dropped to the female’s swollen belly hidden beneath loose robes.

A living spark pulsed within—faint, flickering, yet stubbornly alive.

Announcing its existence to Lundeheim. To the world.

—The first Elf ever conceived outside the Nursery Chamber.

A surge of indescribable emotion choked Fawena’s throat.

Trembling, she knelt before this new mother. Her hand hovered, then drew back.

"When?" she whispered. "When did you know?"

"Ten months ago, Governor," the male Elf answered humbly. "When Nia’s belly began to swell."

"Why wasn’t this reported?"

"Because—"

He started to speak, but Nia gripped his arm.

She stepped forward, shielding him with her body.

Her gaze locked with Fawena’s—defiant, proud.

"I stopped Gale," she said.

"...Why?"

Nia’s eyes fell to her belly. Her palm rested gently atop it. A complex smile touched her lips—something Fawena had never seen in this city without families. Like a wildflower blooming alone in ruins, it struck her with visceral force.

Then Nia asked softly:

"Will you kill him? Or punish us for our sin?"

Her smile had vanished. Only calm resignation remained—a readiness for the worst.

Fawena couldn’t meet her eyes.

She thought of Mother. Of her own impending betrayal.

She shook her head.

"May I… touch him?"

Nia hesitated, then nodded. "Yes."

Fawena’s fingers brushed the taut fabric with near-reverence—then pulled away, afraid to startle the life within.

Rising, she spoke quietly:

"We have just killed one mother…"

"...So we cannot kill another."

A rare smile touched Fawena’s lips.

She addressed Nia and Gale—not just lovers, but parents now—with solemn certainty:

"Instead, I bless you—"

"—For your child may herald the dawn of Lundeheim’s new history."

[To Be Continued]