The darkness was absolute.
Lying motionless on the bed, Sikakama could barely make out anything through the haze clouding her vision. Beside the bed, she could only distinguish the blurred silhouette of a woman with long, dark, wavy hair. She could not make out the woman's face; all she could see was the indistinct figure standing there, watching her with an expression she could not understand.
Exhausted by everything that had happened, Sikakama eventually surrendered to sleep once more.
When she opened her eyes again, she found herself staring at a beautiful ceiling, its pale plasterwork traced with delicate patterns that caught the morning light. This time, her surroundings were clearer.
Sikakama slowly pushed herself upright as sunlight poured through a large window, filling the chamber with a soft golden glow. She instinctively stretched, feeling as though every muscle in her body had stiffened during the long sleep. She had no idea how many hours had passed. It felt as though she had been asleep for an entire lifetime.
She looked from side to side, taking in the spacious room. A tall wooden wardrobe stood against one wall, while to the left, beside the window, was a sturdy writing desk.
The bed beneath her was comfortable, its dark crimson blankets still gathered around her. Sikakama lowered her feet to the floor and pushed the blanket aside, only then noticing the clothes she was wearing.
Her old, ragged garments were gone. In their place was a loose white shirt with embroidered cuffs. It was slightly too large for her, but clean and warm against her skin.
She placed a hand against her chest, feeling the bandages wrapped tightly around the wound she had received from the man in the cloak.
As her fingers brushed against them, memories began to flow back in fragments—the ruins, the cloaked man, the crimson light.
Then her eyes fell upon the end of the bed, where a silver sword lay.
The sword beneath the statue.
She remembered the moment she had pulled it free and immediately rose to reach for it.
The instant her fingers closed around the hilt, the sword seemed almost weightless. She lifted it and studied the blade.
It was silver, sharp, and polished, catching the sunlight streaming through the window. For a brief moment, its surface reflected half of her face.
The hilt was intricately decorated, far too elaborate for an ordinary weapon.
Sikakama lowered the blade slightly, unable to take her eyes from it.
What Uncle Ben had told her returned to her mind.
"He carried with him something of immense value."
The story of the mysterious knight and the relic he had supposedly left behind came rushing back to her.
Could this sword have been that relic?
Then another memory surfaced. The instant she had pulled the sword from beneath the statue, an enormous force had erupted from it.
"A relic capable of changing the fate of entire kingdoms."
Sikakama stared at the sword in silence, her blue eyes fixed upon its gleaming blade.
"The knight's sword…"
She swallowed.
She could not explain the strange feeling rising inside her. There was a quiet, inexplicable pull, as though some unseen thread had connected her to the sword the moment she touched it.
She turned toward the door.
She needed to know where she was.
Sikakama opened it and peered into the hallway. It was empty and silent, the walls and furnishings decorated in a style both grand and dark, with an old-fashioned elegance she could not quite understand.
She stepped outside and quietly closed the door behind her.
The moment the latch clicked into place, a soft voice came from behind her.
"Are you feeling all right now?"
Sikakama spun around.
There had been no one there a moment ago. Now a young woman stood behind her.
She had long red hair that fell freely over her shoulders, and her green eyes held a bright, almost playful warmth. She wore a beautiful blouse and a long skirt, while her hands were clasped behind her back.
She looked very young. There did not seem to be much difference in age between them, yet somehow, she carried herself with greater maturity.
"I came to see whether you had woken up," she said, her smile never fading. "And it seems you already have."
Her eyes fell upon the sword in Sikakama's arms, and her expression immediately brightened. She walked around Sikakama with open curiosity before stopping in front of her.
"So the report was true after all. You're the girl who drew the sword."
She extended her hand, apparently realizing only then that she had forgotten to introduce herself.
"Mirelle. My name is Mirelle."
Sikakama stared at the offered hand for a moment before reaching out to take it.
"Sikakama."
Mirelle gave a small laugh. "Hehe. Yes, we already know."
She turned and gestured for Sikakama to follow. "The Commander wants to see you."
"Commander?" Sikakama followed her down the hallway.
Mirelle clasped her hands behind her back again as she walked.
"He was quite shocked when he heard the sword had been drawn. The truth is, many people have tried to pull it out before. They all failed."
"Even some of the finest knights couldn't move it even an inch. After enough attempts, everyone eventually came to believe it would never be drawn."
"But here you are." Her smile widened.
Sikakama remained silent, still trying to understand what had happened.
There was something almost unbelievable about it. A sword that had never been drawn, a sword that generations of people had tried and failed to move, and somehow, she had pulled it free.
It felt like something that belonged only in a fairy tale, yet it had happened to her.
A strange feeling of triumph stirred within her, mixed with something closer to awe. Perhaps this was what being chosen meant.
That was what happened in the stories, wasn't it?
Sikakama looked around. "Where are we?" The hallway seemed even longer than she had first imagined.
"The Raven Tower," Mirelle replied confidently.
"The Raven Tower?" Sikakama repeated the name quietly. It sounded strange to her. It told her nothing about the place, nor did it bring any particular image to mind.
They eventually reached two enormous doors. Mirelle stopped before them and placed one hand against one of the doors before looking back at Sikakama with a reassuring smile.
"Don't worry. It's safe here."
With that, she pushed the doors open.
Beyond them was a large hall, its tall windows allowing sunlight to pour inside and illuminate the room. A long wooden table stood in the center, where a servant dressed in black and white had already laid out several dishes. Steam rose gently from the food.
"You can eat," Mirelle said. "It was prepared for you, actually."
Sikakama looked at the meal, and only then did she realize just how hungry she was. Her stomach seemed to twist at the sight of the food, bringing back the hunger she had momentarily forgotten.
She picked up a spoon and scooped some of the hot soup into it. The taste was fresh and delicious, and before she could give the matter much thought, she began eating.
At that very moment, footsteps approached from the hallway.
They were light, quick, and perfectly measured. A long cloak swept behind the approaching figure, revealing flashes of crimson lining beneath the black fabric. Two gloved hands reached the doors. With a quiet creak, they swung open, letting a faint breeze drift into the hall.
A man stepped into the hall.
He wore black, his dark hair tied neatly behind his head with a ribbon. A long cloack rested over his shoulders, its inner lining a sharp crimson, while a monocle sat over one eye.
There was nothing friendly about his expression.
"Welcome, Commander," Mirelle said.
His eyes moved from Mirelle directly to Sikakama, and he walked toward her.
Sikakama stopped eating and looked back at him. His gaze was cold and unwelcoming, while irritation seemed to linger beneath the sharp lines of his face and the straight, almost arrogant line of his nose.
Sikakama rose from her chair without really knowing why. It simply felt like something she was supposed to do.
She had no idea what she was meant to say, so she did what people usually did when meeting someone for the first time. She bowed her head slightly.
"Hello. I'm Sikakama."
Then she extended her hand, copying the gesture Mirelle had made earlier.
He did not take it.
He merely kept both hands clasped behind his back and looked her over from head to toe.
Silence settled over the room.
Mirelle's smile became visibly strained as she glanced between them. She seemed to know exactly how this meeting was going to unfold.
Sikakama slowly withdrew her hand.
What an unpleasant situation.
Mirelle gave an awkward smile, clearly growing tense under his gaze.
"Sir Alistair," she began, "the Commander of the Raven—"
"Don't you think you've said enough?"
Alistair's deep, serious voice cut through her words.
Mirelle immediately fell silent.
"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I simply thought that since she was the one who drew the sword, she would become one of us."
Alistair looked at Sikakama again.
"And you're the one."
He paused, his expression unchanged.
"The fool who meddled with the sword."
"What?"
Sikakama barely had time to think of a response.
Alistair turned toward the door.
"Mirelle. Tell the servant to prepare a carriage and return this child to wherever she came from."
His gaze shifted briefly toward the sword.
"I'll take care of the weapon."
Sikakama stared at him, unable to understand what was happening. Then, as the meaning of his words finally reached her, a spark of indignation returned to her eyes.
"Hey!"
Alistair stopped.
"I was the one who pulled the sword!"
Her voice grew quieter, but her tone became more serious.
"That means it's mine now."
"You can't just take it."
For the first time, her expression became completely serious. She was defending something that, in her mind, had suddenly become important enough to fight the entire world for.
Alistair stopped where he stood.
Mirelle looked startled.
"Do you think this is a game?" Alistair asked calmly.
There was a weary irritation in his voice, the kind belonging to a man who had dealt with too many foolish people.
He turned back toward her and approached the table, where the sword lay within reach.
But before he could take it, Sikakama understood what he intended.
She snatched it away and pulled it against her chest, one arm wrapped around the hilt while her other hand gripped the blade.
Mirelle stared at her in disbelief.
"You think you're special or something? Don't mistake luck for worth."
His gaze hardened. "You were never supposed to draw that sword in the first place. If you hadn't meddled with it, none of this would have happened."
He took a step closer. Sikakama met his gaze, but the moment their eyes locked, a quiet fear stirred within her. There was a darkness in those eyes—deep, cold, and utterly devoid of warmth. Something about them made her instinctively want to look away, yet she couldn't. "So don't let a little good fortune fill your head with delusions of grandeur."
Alistair's gaze fell upon Sikakama's hand.
His expression changed.
'The blade hadn't cut her.'
His sharp eyes examined the fingers wrapped around the razor-sharp blade. Yet there was not even a drop of blood.
That was strange.
Alistair remained silent for several seconds, studying the sword and the girl holding it.