Defiance was about to begin.

But first, Fawena and Sylowei sought out Lyselle.

They asked her to take some surviving Elves away.

"If we fight the Matriarch, all of Lundeheim may become a battlefield. Please take them with you," Sylowei said, leading Lyselle and Shall to a group of Elves.

Lyselle noticed the same Elf who’d insisted at the meeting that Elves should solve their own problems.

*Well, money talks.*

After all, Fawena and Sylowei had promised generous payment upon completing the task.

For rare materials and a little cash, Lyselle decided to let bygones be bygones.

She considered herself magnanimous—no need to elaborate.

Before she could even draw her Magic Wand to prepare the Blink Spell, the thorn she’d almost forgiven stepped forward again.

"You want to send us away from Lundeheim?" Young Elf Austin stared at Sylowei in disbelief, then shook his head. "No. I won’t go."

He sounded like a sulking child.

Lyselle’s eyebrows shot up.

*Oh, you’ve got spirit.*

*Not happening.*

Today, whether he liked it or not, she’d send him off with a smile.

She almost wished she held a trumpet instead of a wand.

Fawena and Sylowei remained calm.

"Why?" Sylowei asked, curious.

After a brief silence, Austin stiffened his neck, turning to gaze at the Lanterns strung beneath the cathedral’s dome.

"I want…" His voice fragmented. "I want to stay."

Sylowei sighed.

"And you?" She looked at the Elves behind Austin. "Will you follow him?"

No one answered—but their silence spoke.

One by one, they stepped beside Austin, standing shoulder to shoulder.

Sylowei opened her mouth to speak.

Lyselle guessed she’d warn these underage Elves: war wasn’t child’s play, especially against the Matriarch—a godlike foe.

All adult Elves had stayed behind. Yet who could promise survival in this rebellion?

Even Lyselle and Shall lacked full confidence in defeating the Matriarch.

At best, they could protect themselves.

*Knock them all out and teleport them away. Simple.*

But Lyselle didn’t act alone.

Instead, she glanced at Fawena for permission.

Before Fawena could respond, Shall’s voice cut through:

"Even if you might die on the battlefield?"

He stepped past Lyselle, towering over the young Elves.

His expression was ice. No Holy Sword drawn, yet his presence pressed against their throats like a blade.

Lyselle had never seen this side of him—cold, commanding. When he spoke, the world listened.

Shall scanned their faces, waiting.

His gaze felt like a scalpel, peeling back weak wills to expose hidden truths.

But every young Elf held his iron-gray eyes.

Trembling, breathless—they refused to look away.

Their leader, Austin—the "parliament’s" childish host—clenched his jaw:

"Even if I might die on the battlefield."

He echoed Shall’s words as fact.

Shall studied Austin’s green eyes a moment longer, as if confirming something.

Satisfied, he gave a single nod.

"Hn."

He retreated behind Lyselle and addressed Fawena and Sylowei:

"Let them stay."

Fawena frowned, bewildered. "But who will protect them? Champion, my mother—"

She wanted to say their mother had gone mad, dangerously so. Even she expected to die.

Lyselle sighed—not at Shall’s impulsiveness, but for Fawena.

She met the Governor’s eyes, voice grave:

"Madam Fawena, whether it’s you, me, Shall, or these youths—we all know what staying in Lundeheim means."

"Death. Sacrifice. Right?"

Fawena almost agreed.

But Lyselle saw the answer in her eyes first.

The Sorceress almost laughed.

"You still don’t understand the situation, do you?"

She seized Shall’s hand.

He froze—too startled to react. Even if he hadn’t been, he couldn’t escape.

Her command pinned him:

"*Obey.*"

The Champion was dragged back before the young Elves.

Lyselle shook her head at their earnest faces.

"Seems no race is spared this," she murmured. "Men are such strange creatures."

She turned to Austin. "Do you want to be a hero?"

Austin didn’t hesitate. "Yes!"

She asked another Elf. Same answer.

Fawena’s brow furrowed. *What childish questions are these?*

Lyselle slapped Shall’s arm.

"*This* is manhood," she said, voice tinged with irony yet wonder. "They dream impossible dreams. That they carry some grand purpose—like cicadas buried underground, waiting to emerge for their swan song before vanishing like shooting stars."

"Becoming a hero? That’s the grandest fantasy of all."

"Saving the world. Protecting what they love. Defeating evil. Dying gloriously."

"To them, nothing’s more romantic."

For a flicker, Lyselle’s own eyes grew distant—then cleared.

"Even facing a mad Matriarch."

"Even knowing they’ll likely fall."

"But isn’t that better? They might even crave it—defending their home, saving the mother who lost her mind."

"*That’s* heroism, isn’t it?"

Fawena seemed half-convinced. "But—"

Lyselle knew her fear.

She smiled gently at the young Elves.

"You needn’t worry. They’re not children anymore. You just see them that way."

"Ever wonder if the Matriarch sees *you*—all of Lundeheim—the same? You think they’re not grown. She thinks *you’re* not grown."

"Yet you, the entire Elven race, are ready to defy your mother."

"So what about them? Are these ‘children’ ready for their coming-of-age?"

"The Matriarch doesn’t know her children. And you, Madam Fawena—you don’t know yours."

She glanced at Shall, then the silent Elves.

"Shall already asked them," she whispered. "With eyes. Will. Soul."

"A man’s unspoken pact. And they answered the same way."

"Can’t you hear them saying—"

"*Heroes don’t run from battle.*"

"Am I right?"

No reply came.

But their silence was answer enough.

Fawena saw their faces—eyes burning, expressions unnervingly calm. Each ready to die.

Words failed her.

Lyselle turned to face Shall.

His expression mirrored the youths’: eager to become heroes *now*.

The Sorceress seized the moment.

She rose on tiptoe.

Her slender fingers smoothed his crooked collar, adjusting it with care.

He tensed to push her away—but the contract held him still.

Her cool, soft hands brushed his hair, temple, shoulders, spine—sending faint shivers like static.

Amidst the scent of golden roses, her voice turned tender:

"Madam Fawena, our duty is to lend them strength as they become heroes. And when they return weary, to welcome them with warm meals, hot baths… and a simple embrace."

She leaned closer, whispering just for him:

"Don’t you agree, *my* Champion?"