The rain thrashed against the dark-tinted windows of the mansion, each strike louder, harsher, as if the storm itself was demanding entry. Yet inside the grand living room, the sound was little more than a distant murmur muted, irrelevant, swallowed by the oppressive stillness.
Sir Alex sat rigidly, motionless, his gaze fixed downward as though the intricate carvings on the table could offer him refuge. Anything to avoid looking at the dark-haired woman seated directly across from him. Without his armor, he felt exposed naked, almost defenseless. The cold he expected from the storm? Gone. Erased.
It happened the moment he stepped inside.
His clothes had dried instantly not warmed, not damp, but stripped of every drop of moisture, as though the mansion itself had inhaled it from his body. Even his skin felt too dry, leaving an uncomfortable thirst crawling up his throat. The sensation unnerved him. Fascinated him.
It took every shred of discipline Sir Alex possessed not to react like a wide-eyed child discovering a new toy for the first time.
Silence stretched between them, sharp and suffocating, cutting through the air like a blade. Not long after, a maid stepped into the living room, her movements careful, deliberate. In her hands, she carried a tray with three delicate cups and a small, steaming kettle.
She paused briefly, lowering her gaze, and gave Sir Alex a slight, measured bow. His eyes stayed fixed on the table in front of him, tracing the eccentric carvings, refusing to meet hers or the dark-haired lady's across the room.
The lady remained unmoving, eyes closed, caught somewhere between trance and slumber, impossible to tell. None dared ask, none dared disturb.
The maid's attire marked her apart from the grandeur of the main castle: a dark brown dress, simple, accented by a stark white apron. Her cheeks glowed faintly, pinked by the chill that clung to the room. She carefully set a cup on the table before the lady, her fingers trembling slightly.
With a measured tilt, the kettle hissed as she poured green tea, its scent fresh, cherry-sweet curling into the tense space, mingling with the quiet, like a soft intrusion into a room heavy with unsaid words and restrained motions.
She set the kettle down with deliberate care, the soft clink echoing in the still room. Her voice, layered with respect and tinged with unease, broke the fragile silence.
"Lady Ivory, the tea has been served."
The words seemed to stir the chill in the air. The atmosphere shifted subtly, like the first tremor before a storm.
"Thank you, Ann," came the reply quiet, almost a whisper, measured as if the lady's voice itself weighed the room.
Ann bowed once more, turning her attention to the massive figure seated before her. Hands clasped between his thighs, Sir Alex resembled a silent colossus, every muscle tensed yet restrained, imposing and yet strangely inert, like a teddy bear frozen in thought.
"Sir Alex, may I…" Her voice carried deference, still respectful but tempered by familiarity.
Alex inclined his head in acknowledgement. Ann's hands, careful and precise, tilted the kettle, pouring the steaming tea into the waiting cup. The scent rose in gentle spirals, mingling with the air, carrying the faint memory of days spent under Lady Ivory's tutelage.
Alex's eyes remained locked on the amber liquid, tracing its flow into the cup, every movement hypnotic in its calm repetition. Ann lifted the kettle, bowing deeply one final time before retreating toward the edge of the living room.
"Ann," Lady Ivory's voice cut softly through the room, smooth and commanding, "the Princess will be down soon. Stay nearby. She may need a cup."
Ann inclined her head once, the hint of a shiver running through her frame as she melted back into the shadows of the room, leaving Alex and the lady alone with the weight of the moment.
Not long after, soft footsteps echoed from the stairs, tentative yet deliberate, each tap a whisper against the cold tiles. A figure appeared, framed by the warm glow of the wall's orbs. Her dirt-blonde hair fell to her neck in loose waves, catching the light, and her jade eyes glistened with an almost otherworldly sharpness. The high-waisted leggings and gleaming white jacket clung to her form, every movement precise, controlled, commanding attention without effort.
The Princess's presence was immediately acknowledged by both captains of the royal squads They rose instinctively, bodies stiff, eyes forward, hands snapping to salute with disciplined precision.
Seravyn moved toward the seat at the far end of the four-sided arrangement the two at the walls, the other two facing each other across the table. Her steps were deliberate, her posture flawless, yet effortless, exuding an elegance born of authority.
Reaching the top seat, she settled herself with a smooth grace, the air around her shifting, heavy with unspoken power. Her voice, calm and steady, rang out, carrying command and certainty.
"Sit," she said, and the captains obeyed without hesitation, the weight of her presence settling over the room like a living thing.
Both Lady Ivory and Sir Alex sat down in unison.
She watched the both of them in silence as she judged them. Deep down she worried this might be the last time she might have a have a chance to talk to them on this level. Tomorrow they were to leave for the highlands.
"My Princess."
Ivory's voice carried a subtle edge of concern, but whatever she intended to say never left her lips.
A deep, resonant thud shook the walls once, then again, each strike heavier than the last. The air trembled. Footsteps followed, bold and careless, echoing down the staircase like the march of a beast that had never learned the meaning of restraint.
No one moved.
They all knew only one person could make such a ruckus.
A sharp whistle cut through the silence, light and mocking, the steps drawing closer.
Then a figure emerged from the shadows.
Towering. Broad-shouldered. Wild.
Ann stiffened immediately, spine straightening as she tried poorly to make herself invisible.
The newcomer strode into the living room without hesitation, her sharp greenish hair short and unruly brushing just past her neck. Her eyes swept the room with bold, animalistic confidence.
Firstly, they fell on the familiar silhouette to her left: Lady Ivory, serene and graceful as ever, her long black hair flowing like an ink river against her pale skin an elegant contrast to the newcomer's untamed appearance.
Then her gaze slid to the opposite side of the table.
A massive man sat there broad, stone-faced, disciplined. Sir Alex.
A giant to most.
But to her?
If she was honest… the man looked almost small.
Her expression changed instantly.
Her eyes brightened with unguarded delight.
"Hey Princess!"
Her voice boomed, shaking the air, slamming into the quiet like a hammer. The room echoed with it, refusing to settle.
Without hesitation, she strode toward Ivory.
"Ivory! Why didn't you tell me the Princess was here?"
Ivory didn't even sigh. Her expression didn't shift.
She simply lifted her chin, voice dropping into the cold, polished tone that could cut steel.
"Can't you see we're in the middle of a meeting… Grenda?"
The green-haired woman froze mid-step.
Her shoulders slumped.
In an instant the towering warrior became something pitiful like a massive war hound scolded for barking.
Her voice shrank a little, hopeful, almost pleading.
"About what? …Can I join?"
Ivory snapped.
"GRENDA!"
Her voice cracked through the room like a whip.
Even Ann flinched, shrinking into herself, while Sir Alex straightened instinctively shoulders stiff, eyes forward, sweat sliding down his spine despite the mansion's unnatural dryness.
Seravyn exhaled slowly, the kind of sigh born from exhaustion and impatience, her eyelids lowering like she was holding back a headache that had been building for hours. When she opened her eyes again, they were clear and cold.
They swept over her two subordinates one furious, one pitiful before settling briefly on Sir Alex. His rigid posture made him look more like an overgrown figurine than a man.
"That's enough. Both of you."
Her voice didn't rise. It didn't need to. Authority gathered around it like gravity.
Finally, she turned her gaze to the towering woman still rooted at the entrance. Grenda looked utterly defeated, her massive frame drooping, green hair shadowing her eyes more like a scolded hunting beast than one of the Empires strongest warriors.
Her eyes softened just a fraction.
"Grenda. Sit."
The effect was immediate.
The massive woman brightened like a child given permission to breathe again. In two almost-bouncing steps she crossed the room, her heavy boots somehow landing lightly on the polished floor. She dropped beside Ivory with a grin so wide it seemed physically impossible for her face.
Ivory simply sighed, shoulders falling in quiet defeat. She shifted sideways grudgingly making space for her burly comrade, who sat with the enthusiasm of someone returning to their favorite chair.
Sir Alex watched the scene unfold, expression stiff. A strange thought crossed his mind: If only he had brought his vice-captain. Someone to share this chaos with. Someone to confirm it was, indeed, chaos.
But would they even have allowed it?
A quiet clearing of the throat sliced through the air.
Seravyn.
Her posture straightened, the subtle fatigue in her jade eyes replaced with that dignified calm only she possessed. The others turned toward her Ivory with respectful alertness, Grenda with starstruck admiration, Sir Alex with the posture of a man preparing for judgment.
"We received a report from the scout troop," she began, voice level, clipped, carrying an edge that pulled the room taut.
Her gaze swept across each of them, assessing, measuring reactions in the way only royalty trained for war could.
"There's been movement," she continued. "Massive movement. The monsters in the Highland have shifted."
The room fell silent.
Not from confusion.
From the weight of what those words meant
The air around them felt thicker almost oppressive
Sir Alex stared at the floor, fingers interlocked so tightly his knuckles had gone pale.
His hands were shaking.
He hated that.
The room felt wrong too vast, too still. His body no longer felt like his own, as though something ancient had been stirred awake beneath his skin. Fear rose quietly, thick and suffocating, like dark clouds rolling in without thunder. A familiar sensation. One he had hoped never to feel again.
A reminder of the past.
Seravyn's voice cut through the silence, heavy enough that the air itself seemed to bend around it.
"As we all know," she said calmly, "our relationship with the two matriarchies of the Elaris Continent has not been… favorable lately."
Her jade eyes swept across the room Ivory's composed stillness, Grenda's barely restrained impatience, Sir Alex's rigid posture. She missed nothing.
"With tensions rising within our shores," she continued, her tone sharpening, "the Empress has decided to keep the Rose Brigade focused on protecting the borders of the Empire."
Sir Alex swallowed.
Whatever came next, he already knew deep in his bones.
Ivory's expression hardened.
Beside her, Grenda drew in a slow, measured breath. Neither spoke. They didn't need to. The meaning was clear.
Seravyn did not pause to soften the blow.
"The Queen has granted me authority to lead one hundred Floormen and the Shieldmaidens into the Highlands," she said evenly. "We will intercept and eliminate the herd."
The words hung in the air like a descending blade.
Sir Alex's body reacted before his mind could. His spine stiffened. Muscles locked. His hands trembled where they rested, fingers digging into one another as if to keep himself anchored to the present.
He was the last.
The sole survivor of the previous Highlands raid.
A thousand men had marched beneath the same sky. A thousand voices, loud with confidence and fear alike. He remembered the sound of armor. The weight of anticipation.
And then
His jaw clenched. Teeth ground together as heat flared behind his eyes. Veins pulsed at his temples, each heartbeat dragging the memory closer.
The Highlands did not forgive.
And they did not forget.
Seravyn's gaze swept across the room, lingering on each face in turn. These were the people she would entrust not just with battle but with the Empire's fate.
They all understood it.
Every single one of them knew the truth: the Empire was in no condition to endure failure. There would be no room for mistakes. None.
The air grew dense, pressing down on their chests. It felt like drowning in sand silent, suffocating. No one spoke.
Each of them sat trapped in their own thoughts, staring into the same invisible abyss. An ocean stood at their feet, vast and merciless. With every misstep, every wrong decision, its waters crept closer first to their ankles, then their knees, rising steadily toward their throats.
And behind them…
The Empire waited.
Sir Alex slowly lifted his head toward the warm glow of the chandelier.
It did nothing to chase away the cold.
The screams of his best friend his brother in all but blood replayed endlessly in his mind. Flesh melting beneath acidic rain. The sickening hiss as skin gave way. Eyes turned purple with poison, already dead long before the body fell.
Live for me, Alex.
The words clung to him like a curse he had chosen to carry.
Now he sat there, breathing, wondering what that man would think if he knew Alex was returning to that hell. Returning willingly.
Yes. He was going.
He could have run. He wanted to run.
But he wouldn't.
The empire needed him. And long ago, he had sworn an oath not to survive, but to stand. To walk into death's jaws if it meant even one fewer name carved into stone.
His body stiffened as resolve replaced fear.
Sir Alex turned to Seravyn.
"My Princess," he said, his voice wavering for only the briefest moment before steadying, "when do we depart?"
The room stirred, pulled back from its silent descent into dread.
Both Ivory and Grenda's eyes flickered with shock brief, involuntary before they masked it just as quickly.
They all knew what he had endured. Half of them had expected refusal. Instead, here he sat.
Fear was written plainly across Sir Alex's face, carved deep by memory and loss. Yet beneath it burned something far more dangerous…..resolve.
Seravyn saw it too.
For a heartbeat, her gaze softened. Then the steel returned.
"Tomorrow," she said, voice steady, merciless.
"We depart at first light."
The words tightened the noose around the room.
Sir Alex merely nodded.
He rose to his feet with measured control, posture straightening as though forged by will alone. He bowed first to Seravyn, then to Ivory and Grenda.
"Accepted, my Princess," he said. His voice was firm now, stripped of hesitation, heavy with loyalty and intent.
"I will take my leave and prepare my men for departure at dawn."
Seravyn gently nodded in acknowledgment
Without another word, he turned.
The oak doors loomed before him, ancient and unyielding, words etched deep above their frame
Bachirum Lustov Valmira
He stepped forward back toward hell, willingly.
His steps fading into the beating of the rain unto hard concrete
Ivory watched his back as he passed through the oak doors.
For a brief second, rain and cold wind surged into the room sharp, intrusive before the doors shut with a dull thud.
Her expression remained hard.
She had no say in this.
Even if she objected, even if she begged, the Shieldmaidens would still follow the Princess into hell itself if she commanded it.
A rough voice broke the silence.
"Princess… do you think we'll return without casualties on our side?"
Ivory didn't turn, but her hands tightened. She already knew the answer. She only hoped foolishly that Seravyn would deny it.
Grenda remained silent.
She wasn't blind. The Shieldmaidens had been too young during the last Highland raid, spared the sight of what remained when it ended. Now, they were meant to lead one. Not a skirmish. Not a border clash.
A full suppression.
If they failed, trade would collapse. Transport routes would fall. The Empire would bleed.
Fear raw and unfamiliar settled deep in her chest.
Seravyn studied them.
Fear was written plainly on their faces. Hesitation lingered just beneath the surface, close enough to touch.
The mantle felt heavy.
Too heavy.
For a moment, she said nothing. Then slowly a faint smile touched her lips. Not confidence. Not arrogance. Resolve.
If I'm knee-deep in fear over leading a hundred and seven souls into a raid, she thought, then what must Mother face every day?
And yet… she still rises each morning looking untouchable.
Her gaze hardened.
"I highly doubt it."
Her voice was low barely more than a breath but it reached both Ivory and Grenda all the same.
Silence followed.
None of them tried to fill it. There was nothing left to say. All that remained was prayer empty, desperate hope offered to distant goddesses who had never once answered.
Grenda was the first to move.
She pushed herself to her feet, broad shoulders straightening, the darkness in the room sliding off her like water. Her grin was loud, defiant almost reckless.
"Don't worry, Princess," she said, voice booming. "We'll go in there and kick some monster ass."
She laughed, sharp and fearless, then lightly thumped Ivory's shoulder.
"What do you say, Ivory?"
Ivory blinked, dragged back from her thoughts. She forced her posture upright, lips tightening as she masked the storm inside her chest.
"Y-yeah… yeah," she muttered. There was hesitation there, thin but unmistakable.
"That's the spirit!" Grenda exclaimed, grin stretching wide.
Seravyn watched them quietly.
She had known Grenda since they were little more than teenage girls loud, stubborn, impossible to break. Her words were simple, crude even… yet something in them settled the tightness around Seravyn's heart. A fragile assurance. A reminder that she was not alone.
Ivory lifted her head just in time to see Grenda calling for Ann, already demanding a bottle of honey wine as though tonight were worth celebrating.
Strangely enough… Ivory found herself wanting a glass too.
Seravyn rose from her seat.
The weight did not leave her shoulders but it felt shared now.
"Huh? Princess, you're leaving already?" Grenda asked, eyes flicking between Seravyn and the untouched glass.
Ivory turned sharply. "My Princess… it's still pouring outside." Concern slipped into her voice before she could stop it. "Why not wait a while?"
Seravyn smiled, her eyes warm despite the storm.
"I would," she said softly, "but there are preparations to be made for tomorrow."
Ivory and Grenda exchanged a glance. Surprise flickered across their faces, then understanding followed. Leadership was never gentle. Never light.
Seravyn offered them a final nod before turning away. The oak door opened, and cold rain rushed in, sharp and biting, before the door closed behind her.
The storm welcomed her like an old acquaintance.
Rain hammered down, filling her ears, drowning the world in its rhythm. She walked through the garden paths, past sculpted hedges and flowers heavy with scent, the air thick with wet earth and crushed petals. Slowly, she lifted her face to the sky.
Dark clouds churned above.
She closed her eyes and spread her arms slightly, as if accepting the rain rather than resisting it. Droplets struck her skin cold, relentless. Seconds passed. Then more.
The rain slowed.
Seravyn opened her eyes.
Then she saw it.
The droplets had stopped.
Rain hung suspended in the air, frozen mid-fall hundreds of tiny mirrors reflecting the dim glow of the garden lights. The world held its breath, as if reality itself had hesitated.
Seravyn stared.
A scream tore through the heavens.
It was raw. Violent. Wrong.
The sky shuddered. Cracks rippled through the dark clouds, spiderwebbing outward, splitting the firmament as though something beyond it had grown impatient. Each fracture burned with pale, merciless light.
The air trembled.
Instinct screamed at her to run.
She turned toward the mansion but her body refused to obey. Her legs locked in place. Her breath caught painfully in her chest. With every crack, her strength bled away, as if the sky itself was pressing down upon her.
The fractures widened.
Light poured through them, jagged and unrestrained.
Seravyn stood frozen, face pale, eyes wide, watching helplessly as the heavens began to break.
Then the rain moved again.
But not downward.
The droplets reversed their fall, rising slowly, silently, drawn back toward the wounded sky. One by one, they vanished until nothing remained suspended in the air.
And then she felt it.
Heat.
The sun once hidden now loomed high above, grotesquely swollen, thrice its former size. Its rays scorched everything they touched. The garden withered beneath it.
Her skin burned.
Moisture vanished from her flesh. Blood surfaced only to evaporate instantly, leaving behind cracked skin and searing pain. Tears streamed down her face, but even they dried before reaching her chin.
Her vision darkened.
The light became unbearable then suddenly, absolute black.
Her mouth opened, heavy, useless. No scream came.
Another crack split the world.
Then
Silence.