Tristan contemplated the old woman's words. They were delivered with unwavering certainty and seemed to harbor no trace of deceit. For a fleeting moment, they almost convinced him—almost made him believe that he was this so-called Noura Zori. But he knew better. He was no false god, no figure of blind reverence. In his world, such beings were always foretold—etched into scripture, immortalized in sacred texts that spoke of their coming, their fall, and their rebirth. Surely, something similar must exist here. A prophecy carved into stone, a scripture preserved through generations. The thought stirred his curiosity, sharp and insistent.
"What does the prophecy of the Noura Zori speak of?" he asked, his voice measured yet probing.
The old woman smiled faintly, as though recalling something ancient and sacred, before reciting, "Both noble and lesser blood shall unite for his creation. He will rise from a state of death and be reborn anew. He shall possess visions of what is yet to come, and at last, he will bring forth a change unlike any the world has ever witnessed."
She paused, her gaze settling on Tristan with quiet intensity.
"Of all these signs," she continued softly, "only two have come to pass."
"I know I possess noble blood—almost everyone in the Middle District carries fragments of it. What makes me any different?" Tristan asked as they drew nearer to the main structure ahead.
"The prophecy does not speak of mere traces," she replied. "It speaks of the purest and strongest of noble bloodlines—the lineage of one of the Five Great Families."
Tristan's jaw tightened. He had long suspected some connection to House Vermillion; his crimson hair alone was evidence enough. But the mere thought of sharing blood with Benjamin or Decker Vermillion filled him with a quiet, seething disgust.
At last, they arrived at the centerpiece of the underground city: a magnificent white edifice rising like a monument to forgotten divinity. It was a cathedral—grand, imposing, and eerily beautiful. Two towering doors stood at its entrance, flanked by silent sentinels. A wide stone stairway led upward, its craftsmanship rivaling even the most sacred cathedrals of Earth. Every pillar, every arch, every carved detail spoke of devotion and mastery.
As Tristan approached, his eyes were drawn to the immense clock engraved across the twin doors. Its design was foreign, almost cryptic. The numerals etched into its face were not the conventional markings of timepieces he knew, but Roman numerals—ancient, deliberate, symbolic. Before he could ponder further, the guards pushed the heavy doors open.
The cathedral's interior revealed itself in solemn grandeur. A short flight of stairs descended toward a circular chamber where a round table stood, surrounded by seven figures. At the forefront stood a man in prayer before a statue—a figure clad only in a loincloth, shoulder-length hair cascading down, a dagger raised skyward in silent offering.
The man turned.
He was old—though his exact age was impossible to discern. Perhaps in his fifties, perhaps his sixties. His hair was black at the crown, fading into grey along the sides, with long sideburns framing a face devoid of warmth. His eyes… they were hollow, lifeless—like those of a man who had already died.
He walked calmly to the head of the table, the tallest among those present. Standing with his hands clasped behind his back and his chin raised, he spoke.
"My title is Unul," he said evenly, "though I believe you know me by another name—Bertal Wenkay."
Tristan's eyes widened, fury erupting within him like wildfire. His hand twitched instinctively, reaching for a blade that was no longer there.
"Please, compose yourself," Unul said, his tone calm, almost indifferent. "I have no intention of fighting you. I merely wish to speak."
…
Amelia's POV
Amelia sat at the center of her king-sized bed, the curtains drawn tightly shut, sealing her within a suffocating darkness. The room felt heavy, oppressive—mirroring the weight in her chest. Before her lay Tristan's wolf cloak, its unpleasant scent still lingering. She hadn't moved it. Couldn't.
Tears fell freely onto the sheets—tears of regret, of guilt, of something deeper she could not name. Her quiet sobs filled the silence, audible even through the closed doors. Servants had come and gone, knocking softly, only to be met with silence. Even Sylvia had tried—several times—but Amelia had not answered. She wanted solitude. Needed it.
Most respected that.
One did not.
"I'm coming in," Ruben announced from behind the door.
Receiving no response, he took her silence as permission and entered.
Light from the corridor spilled into the room, cutting through the darkness and illuminating Amelia's tear-streaked face. Ruben stepped inside, pausing briefly at her desk. His fingers brushed against the polished wood before his gaze shifted toward his sister.
He felt anger.
And beneath it, something heavier—sorrow.
He exhaled slowly as he approached her bedside.
"Do you remember the first thing I told you," he began, "when you shared your dream with me?"
Amelia remained silent.
"I told you that the path you chose was forged through years—decades—of oppression. And yet, you still chose to walk it. Even after Mother's death."
At last, Amelia turned her head, her red eyes meeting his.
"Now that you've seen the world for what it truly is," Ruben continued, "what will you do? Will you surrender… or will you fight?"
Amelia wiped her tears, her movements slow but deliberate, as she rose from the bed. Her legs felt heavy, yet she forced herself forward until she stood before the curtains.
With trembling hands, she pulled them open.
Moonlight poured into the room, soft and ethereal, revealing a vast night sky scattered with stars. The sight was breathtaking—calm, distant, indifferent.
"I will continue to fight," Amelia said quietly.
Ruben smiled faintly.
"No matter how difficult it becomes," he replied, "if you choose to stand, then I will stand with you."
He paused, then added, his tone shifting slightly, "There's something else you should know."
Amelia did not turn, her gaze still fixed on the moon.
"Tristan escaped," Ruben said. "We don't know where he is… but it's likely he's joined forces with terrorists."
For a moment, silence lingered.
Then, unexpectedly—a smile.
Soft. Relieved.
Amelia's lips curved as she whispered, almost to herself, "Thank goodness."